S A Meade Stolen Summer

A Total-E-Bound Publication

www.total-e-bound.com

Stolen Summer
ISBN #978-0-85715-637-2
©Copyright S. A. Meade 2011
Cover Art by Lyn Taylor ©Copyright August 2011
Edited by Rebecca Hill
Total-E-Bound Publishing

This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination
and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or
places is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form,
whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of
the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.

Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound
Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil
proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs
and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator
of the artwork.

Published in 2011 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL,
United Kingdom.

Warning: This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature
readers. This story has a heat rating of Total-e-burning and a sexometer of 1.

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Dedication

To Peter and Nathaniel—with love. Thank you for putting up with the demented, distracted

woman behind the computer and the less than tidy house.

Trademarks Acknowledgement

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following
wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

Spiderman: Marvel Comics
Stella: Anheuser-Busch InBev
Malibu: Pernod Ricard
Best Western: Best Western International, Inc.
Peugeot: PSA Peugeot Citroën
The Guardian: The Guardian Media Group
The Sun: News International Ltd.
The Daily Telegraph: Telegraph Media Group
BMW: Bayerische Motoren Werke
Mercedes: Daimler AG
Porsche: Porsche AG
Formula One: Formula One Group
Crown Derby: Royal Crown Derby
The Power of Love: Frankie Goes to Hollywood
Ritz: The Ritz-Carlton Hotel Company, LLC
iPod: Apple Inc.
BBC: The British Broadcasting Company
Google: Google Inc.
Michelin: Guide Michelin
Jacuzzi: Jacuzzi Brands, Inc.

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S.A. Meade

Author note

If someone had told me, when I started writing seriously two years ago, that my first

published book would be an erotic romance, I would’ve told them to check for bats in their
attic. ‘Stolen Summer’ started off as a 1,000 word scene written for a challenge. The
characters, Colin and Evan, wouldn’t leave me alone. They kept intruding on my (trunked)
Viking story and tugging at my sleeve. I gave in, scribbled out a brief outline on a flight from
Phoenix to LA and hammered out the first chapter in a hotel room in Santa Monica. Four
weeks later I had a first draft finished.

If I hadn’t stumbled onto the best writers’ forum on the internet, Absolute Write,

‘Stolen Summer’ would never have seen the light of day. The AW Purgies saved my sanity,
held my hand and offered encouragement and drinks and the denizens of the Bordello
guided me towards the joys of erotic romance and naughty bits. Special thanks have to be
reserved for my amazing beta readers—Amy Bai, Jessica Brockmole, Rebecca Burrell,
Gretchen McNeil and Ash Penn. Their honesty and insight made ‘Stolen Summer’ a much
better book than that hastily written first draft. Rebecca Hill is a wonderful editor who has
cured my predilection for excess commas and she’s great to work with and Lyn Taylor has
created a cover that does my story proud.

Finally, thank you to my family, Peter, Nat, Mum and Dad. I love you all.

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S.A. Meade

Chapter One

The white flags of the Taliban fluttered from the crumbling mud walls of the village

and people stared at us with blank, hostile eyes as the armoured vehicles rumbled along the

narrow, dusty lane. Captain Beaumont was quieter than usual, his mouth set in a grim line

beneath three days’ growth of beard. I wanted to ask him what he thought was up but after a

week in his company I’d already learnt when to keep my journalist’s mouth shut.

After a few stints embedded with various regiments in numerous war zones, I’d

developed a bit of a feel for trouble myself. I guess a kid would call it ‘Spidey sense’. I just

called it my ‘Oh shit’ sense.

They started firing at us from the rooftops, a couple of fuckwit snipers with nothing

better to do than take pot shots at British soldiers. Bullets pinged off the vehicles, spat in the

dust and slammed into walls.

The explosion came from the front of the convoy. Rolling waves of dust funnelled

through the alley. Our men returned fire in workmanlike silence but, beyond the uneven

tattoo of battle, one man’s screams cut through me like a knife.

I tucked my shaking hands between my knees and prayed there wouldn’t be

grenades. We were proverbial sitting ducks in armoured vehicles of dubious construction.

There was sod all in the APC to hide under. We just had to sit it out and hope there were no

IEDs. At moments like this, it was hard not to imagine my paper’s headline, ‘Journalist Evan

Harrison killed in ambush’. I wasn’t ready to die. I was thirty-two and had issues that

needed to be resolved.

“Call in air support,” Beaumont barked into the radio. “Tell them to hurry the fuck up.

I can’t send the fucking medic in while those fuckwits are firing at us.”

I didn’t hear the reply but, given Beaumont’s choice language, I didn’t think the

choppers would be too long. Our lot were doing their best and a sharp, pained yelp made me

think one of the snipers was hit but the other kept firing erratic bursts into the shooting

gallery. As the long, turbulent minutes passed, my fears of grenades and IEDs faded a bit.

The insurgents would’ve used them before now, rather than waste bullets. Perhaps I wasn’t

going to make the headlines in the wrong way…this time.

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I watched Beaumont. He gnawed at his thumbnail while he peered through the slatted

window. His dark eyes were a study in contained agony and fury. I don’t know if I could

even begin to understand or try to describe what he was feeling.

The roar of the incoming choppers shattered the impasse.

“Thank Christ for that.” Beaumont spoke into his radio. “All right, send in the medic.

We’re clear.” He took his helmet off, ran his hand through his spiky hair and sighed. “I hate

this fucking job.”

“Yeah.” There wasn’t much else to say.

* * * *

I couldn’t trail around after Beaumont twenty-four-seven. I had my own tent, a cot

and my laptop. The internet connection had been fucked, more or less, since I’d arrived. It

meant I could open my laptop and not be inundated with scores of emails or distracted by

surfing the net when I should be writing. That’s what I told myself, anyway. Mind, it also

meant I finished writing my daily piece in no time, which left me time for sod all. I listened to

a lot of music and read one or two books I’d downloaded before I left. But I also had a lot of

time to sleep and think.

One night, after a particularly disgusting chicken curry MRE, I couldn’t sleep. I’d

finished the books. I’d written my bit for the day. There wasn’t much else to do while my

stomach wrestled with the ersatz korma. I opened a file of old photos, curious because it

wasn’t labelled. It was an odd collection—bits and pieces—a family birthday, my sister and

her kids, a drunken weekend…

It had been a wedding. I didn’t remember whose. Most of the pictures seemed to be of

Colin, my best mate. I looked at the photos and tried to remember the last time we’d got

together. Jobs and girlfriends kept getting in the way these days. In spite of those obstacles,

we’d been best friends since university. I took a long time over those photos, looking at Colin

with his messy, black curls, bird’s-wing brows and dark eyes—damn those brown eyes.

Seeing him again made me think about things I really tried to avoid—things about myself

and where I fitted in the world.

I closed the file, shut down the laptop and tried to sleep. I think it was probably the

curry. I know I had some strange dreams and woke with a hell of an erection. I was ashamed

that the erection had been fuelled by disjointed images and memories of Colin. I fought the

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fierce tug of longing and headed for the crooked pipe in a canvas box that served as the camp

shower.

The dreams stayed with me as I grabbed some breakfast in the mess tent. It was

largely empty, which was good, because I didn’t feel much like talking. I wasn’t sure I knew

how. The squaddies almost always talked about the women they’d left behind, or women

they fancied. It wouldn’t have gone down so well if I’d told them dreams about my best mate

had left me randy.

After breakfast I wandered outside and discovered the reason why the mess was so

quiet. They’d decided to let the men phone home using the satellite phone. I was glad of that

and hoped that Beaumont was able to speak to his fiancée, because he spoke about her so

often. It was clear to me that he hurt with missing her. I wandered across the compound,

trying to shake off the dreams. I found Beaumont, hands in pockets, kicking a stone through

the eternal dust.

“Is everything all right?” I called out to him, needing company and conversation—

anything to clear my head.

He wheeled around and stared at me. If ever there was a man who looked sorry and

lost, it was him. “Yeah, I suppose so.”

“It can’t be easy, just having a few minutes on the phone like that.”

“No it isn’t.” Beaumont kicked the stone once more. It tumbled across the ground and

disappeared in a tiny cloud of dust. “It almost makes things worse. Do you have a girlfriend?

Don’t you miss her when you go away?”

I thought of Katy. I knew that, even when we got the internet back, there’d be no

emails from her. She had a life of her own when I was gone. It had been that way for months.

What bothered me was that I wasn’t bothered. I didn’t miss Katy any more than I missed

being stuck on the Hangar Lane roundabout during morning rush hour. “I have a girlfriend

but I can’t say I miss her all that much.”

Beaumont raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you think that’s a bid odd? Doesn’t that tell you

something?”

It told me loads. My mind looked for Katy, instead it found Colin. I would’ve given

anything at that moment to be sitting in a pub somewhere with him, laughing over a beer or

two. “It tells me that we should break up. I miss my best mate more. When I’m stuck in

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places like this, I wish I could sit down and drink a few beers with him.” I felt a twist of the

gut that had nothing to do with the lingering after-effects of the fake korma.

“How extraordinary. I suppose Grace is my best friend, too.” Beaumont smiled. “I’m

not sure I’d be drinking beers if she was here with me, mind.”

I managed a laugh. ”I suppose not.” I stared past him, across the broad sweep of the

compound. I just couldn’t shake off those dreams and that scared me more than any ambush

or IED. For a moment, I could have sworn I caught a subtle drift of sandalwood aftershave

and heard the low bubble of Colin’s laugh. “I’m not sure I would be, either.”

I didn’t want company anymore. I didn’t know what the hell I wanted. I left

Beaumont and headed back to my tent. Probably not the healthiest thing I could’ve done but

I just didn’t want the company.

* * * *

“Are you feeling any better today?” Beaumont took a long sip of his water and

stretched his legs out, grinding his boot heels into the dust.

We sat outside his tent and stared across the compound. It wasn’t too cold and it was

better outside than cooped up in the mess or a tent.

“I don’t know. I sometimes think that boarding school screwed me up in the head in

certain ways, you know?”

To my surprise, he laughed. “Oh, I know. How to screw up your kid—send them to

boarding school with a bunch of testosterone-challenged boys.”

“Where did you go?”

“Berkstead. How about you?”

“Small world, so did I. I left there fourteen years ago.”

“Twelve for me.” Beaumont smiled and shook his head. “I knew there was a reason I

liked you. Christ, that place was a shit hole.”

“Yes, it fucking was.”

We sat and talked for a while about Berkstead—the teachers, the gossip, the rituals

and the fagging. Oh, yes. Don’t believe for a moment that fagging died out with the

nineteenth century. Not at Berkstead, anyway. The shared memories were enough to lower

whatever journalist-versus-soldier barriers remained between us. After that conversation,

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whenever Beaumont had downtime we’d sit and talk. Not just about school but about our

lives beyond our jobs. I learnt a lot about Beaumont and about his fiancée, an assistant

racehorse trainer. All the captain wanted was to finish this tour, leave the army and spend

the rest of his life with Grace.

“What about you?” he asked me one evening when the cold wind had driven us to

seek shelter in a quiet corner of the mess tent, away from a rowdy game of cards. “I take it

you won’t be marrying your girlfriend?”

“No. I may even kick her into touch when I get home.”

“What’s the problem with her? Are you bored? Just not feeling anything?”

Where did I start? I looked down at the mug of tea I was drinking. “All of the above, I

suppose. We’ve been together for a few years and I’m away a lot. She’s got used to that and

I’m certain she’s finding other ways to occupy her time, other men. What worries me is that it

doesn’t really bother me. I don’t care what she does anymore.”

“Ouch.”

“Nah, not really. In a way I can’t blame her. The job comes first. She’s always been fine

with that. I think she likes the idea of dating a journalist.”

“It sounds like you need to knock it on the head.” Beaumont sipped his tea, made a

face and set the mug down. “So what’s this about your best mate? You’re not a closet gay are

you?”

If someone had asked me that a few weeks before, I probably would’ve laughed or

thumped them, depending on who was doing the asking. There was something about

Beaumont that invited trust and confidences, though. Perhaps it was those brown eyes. They

reminded me of Colin.

“I don’t know.” I thought of the last time I‘d seen Colin. ”I’ve known him ever since

university. We were flatmates and we always got on. When I get home, he’s always the first

person I phone. If I have an inbox full of emails, his are always the first ones I read and reply

to.”

There was a memory, one that came sneaking back like a thief, one I’d kept hidden

away. A memory of a night we’d both been stood up by our respective dates and had ended

up in our squalid, little flat watching porn on satellite TV. We’d drunk a few beers and

laughed at the bad acting, the bouncing boobs and the non-existent plots. The last film in the

marathon had been about a bodybuilder who worked in a gym. He fell in lust with one of his

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clients, a banker who wanted to improve his physique. The foreshadowing was about as

subtle as a charging rhino and I didn’t know where to look at first when the two guys went at

it hammer and tongs in the showers. What I did remember was the ache in my groin and

hugging a cushion to hide the sudden, raging hard-on. Colin went quiet, too. When the film

was over, he was still quiet, sitting there staring at his empty beer can while moving his

fingers over the cushion he held.

Perhaps we’d had too much to drink. I know neither of us said anything. Colin put his

arm around my shoulder and kissed me. It was sweet and hesitant at first then, when I didn’t

put up a fight, he deepened the kiss. I turned and found myself kissing him back. He tasted

of beer and his stubble rasped against my skin. I don’t know how many girls I’d kissed but

none of them had got me going the way Colin did. I curled my fingers into his hair and

couldn’t even object when his hand drifted to the front of my jeans, rubbing my already

throbbing cock.

I groaned into his mouth and pushed the cushion away from his lap. It was a relief to

find he was just as hard. I slid my hand beneath his jeans, beneath his shorts and that was all

it took. The kissing never stopped. It became more heated, more frantic. I unzipped his flies,

he unzipped mine. Our hands moved in rapid unison, pumping hot, desperate flesh until we

both exploded in a sticky mess of wet T-shirts and embarrassed silence. The beer buzz

disappeared. We looked at each other in the silence, mumbled goodnight to each other and

disappeared to our respective rooms. It took me ages to get to sleep because I kept thinking

about Colin lying in his bed and wondering if he was thinking about me.

By the next morning, we’d been back to talking about football and nothing had ever

been said about what had happened, ever.

Beaumont interrupted my reverie. “I seem to have struck a nerve.”

I pushed my cold tea away. “Yeah, I think you did.” My cheeks burned. “Perhaps I

am. Perhaps that’s why I can’t get pissed off when I know Katy plays away.”

“I think you have some things to sort out when you get home, my friend.”

I looked at Beaumont, surprised to see sympathy in his eyes. “I think you’re right.”

* * * *

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When the IED went off, none of us expected it. I guess that’s why those Taliban

bastards use the buggers. They love their little surprises. This one certainly worked. For a

split second, everyone in the convoy stopped and gawped at the blossoming cloud of dust

and smoke. I grabbed my camera then stopped. It was bloody hard to maintain good, old-

fashioned journalistic neutrality when the blast had hurled Captain Beaumont through the

air.

Fucking hell, I thought that only happened in films.

Men shouted at each other up and down the convoy. While the dust and smoke from

the explosion were fading, the air was now alive with the wasps’ hiss of bullets, pinging

against the lorries.

Guardsman Walker grabbed my arm and wrenched me to the ground. “For fuck’s

sake, man, get the fuck out of here.”

No arguments from me.

I did my best impression of a combat crawl, across the dirt and small stones, under the

lorry to the ditch on the other side of the road. I didn’t even swear when scraps of sharp rock

bit into my skin. I just wanted to be away from the worst of the gunfire. At least the ground

there was open, nowhere for the gutless little bastards to hide. Nope, they were entrenched

on the other side, hunkered down behind a crumbling mud wall.

Lucky them.

Walker peered around the front of the lorry, raised his rifle and let off a round. All

along the line of trucks and armoured vehicles, soldiers fired back at the enemy with a fierce

calm that scared the hell out of me. I expected mass panic, shouting, erratic, wild gunfire and

calls for air support. Nope—they just picked up their guns and did their best to get the job

done.

The only real sense of panic seemed to come from the cluster of men at the front of the

convoy who, quite rightly, were frantic to try to rescue Beaumont. I couldn’t see where he’d

landed but I guessed it was somewhere on the wrong side of the road, right in the line of fire

between them and us. I didn’t fancy his chances much.

“What’s going to happen to the captain?” I looked at Walker, who swore when a

bullet whizzed past him and slammed into the ditch beyond.

“Fuck knows. I hope they can get him out.”

What’s left of him.

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It was bloody difficult to keep a professional journalistic indifference. I really liked

Beaumont. All those talks we’d had during downtime. I felt like I’d been kicked in the guts

and I was scared shitless for him.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I’d done first aid training. Some of the places I’d

been sent to in the past hadn’t had much in the way of medical care, so I’d learnt to make do

with DIY doctoring.

“Just stay there.” Walker let off another round. The noise from his rifle was deafening.

I didn’t want to stay there. I wanted to help Beaumont.

Down at the front of the convoy there was more shouting, followed by a rapid,

venomous exchange of gunfire. Moments later, the first casualty was carried past me. I

recognised Guardsman Roberts only because I saw the intact side of his face. The other side

was a mess of red and exposed bone that bore little resemblance to a human face. I leaned

over the ditch and threw up. Two more wounded men followed in short order then, after

another furious bout of gunfire, Captain Beaumont was hauled up the line.

I followed the medic into the lorry where the wounded men were being treated.

“Give me something to do,” I told him. I’d already seen too much of the ambush.

The medic sighed and ran his hands through his hair. The confined space reeked of

blood. One man screamed. I swallowed my rising gorge. Sometimes it fucking stinks being a

journalist.

“If you’re not too squeamish”—he threw me a pack of gauze—“you could apply some

pressure to Guardsman Riley’s leg wound. He’s bleeding like a stuck pig.”

Blood I could stand. I felt guilty I didn’t have to see to Roberts. The medic went to

Beaumont, swearing when he cut away the trouser leg.

I can’t say I remember much after that. Riley’s leg was bloody—I don’t know how

many gauze pads I used. All I know is, by the time the helicopters arrived to finish off the

insurgents and evacuate the wounded, the floor around my feet was littered with bloodied

gauze and my hands were sticky with gore.

I never wanted to see anything resembling an ambush again.

* * * *

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Back at the base, the CO decided I’d seen enough. I was sent out with the next chopper

back to Bastion. The first thing I did, after dropping my belongings in my lodgings, was find

the hospital.

I blagged my way in, waving my press card, and found Beaumont’s doctor.

“Do you know him?”

“I just spent three weeks in his company. I was worried about him.”

The doctor sank onto a chair and rubbed his eyes. “His leg is a bit of a mess. We’ve

cleaned it up as best we can and as soon as he’s stabilised he’ll be sent home.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Is he conscious?”

“In and out.”

“Any chance I can pop in and say goodbye?”

“I don’t see why not. You might as well write about this place.”

“I will.” It was all part of the same story. We send the lads out to hell, they get shot up,

and sent to Bastion to let the docs there try and fix what’s broken. It just didn’t seem right to

go home without seeing Beaumont, conscious or not.

A frame covered his mangled leg and a labyrinth of tubes ran all over the place. I sat

by the bed for a moment and looked at him. He didn’t much look like an officer at that

moment, with his dark beard. He’d grown it because he’d thought it would make it easier for

him to connect with the locals. It had worked, to some degree. I’d been on patrols with him

when he’d stopped in the nearest village to the base. I’d sat with him, cross-legged on a

faded rug, while he had listened patiently to complaints—complaints about the insurgents,

complaints about food, water, electricity, governments, war lords. All the time he’d listened,

nodded in the right places, offered words of comfort and sympathy through the interpreter.

Sometimes, he’d even spoken to them in their own language, careful, laboured words. They

had liked him for that, too, because he’d taken the trouble to learn their ancient tongue.

War always fucked over the good ones.

Beaumont stirred and mumbled something. I waited and watched his eyelids flicker. I

hoped he was doped up with the best painkillers Her Majesty’s army had to offer.

“What the…?” His eyes were like brown glass. “How’d you get in here?”

“The doctor let me in. I wanted to see how you were.”

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He took a deep breath and winced. “I’m buggered up.”

“I’m sorry but, yes…probably.”

“I want Grace.”

“I’m sure you’ll see her soon.” I didn’t envy his fiancée the mess she’d be coping with.

“She might not want to see me.”

“I doubt that. Judging by everything you’ve told me about her, I don’t think she’s the

type to walk away from anything.”

He sighed, a bit of groan mixed in with it. “We’ll see.” He closed his eyes and was

gone again.

I sat with him for a while longer but he didn’t regain consciousness while I was there.

I left the hospital and returned to my room, feeling sick and tired of the mess that was

Afghanistan. I flipped open my laptop to check for any emails I might have missed. There

were quite a few. I worked my way through them. Some were from my boss, who was

enthusiastic about the pieces I’d sent him so far. There were a few from other colleagues,

saying the same. My sister had filled my inbox with her usual chain email crap—“If you

want good luck, pass this on to ten of your best friends.” None from Katy.

There was a single email left over after I’d deleted or moved all the rest. This time, I’d

saved his for last.

Hello, mate.

I suppose, since I keep getting your answerphone, that you’re still in Afghanistan. It seems like

ages since we last talked. I’ve been reading your pieces and they’re the best you’ve done. Sounds like a
bloody nightmare out there. Let me know when you get back, I fancy a good drinking session. Get your

arse up to Oxford and we’ll get pissed and try and put the world to rights. It’s been a long time since

you’ve been up here.

As you’ve probably guessed, me and Michelle are finished. She reckoned I wasn’t giving her my

all. I think she was expecting me to shower her with poems and flowers. It seems to be a common

misconception with all the people I end up with, male or female. They all seem to think that an English
professor should write poetry and be perpetually lost in a fog of romance. I wish I knew how to

disabuse people of that notion, it would make life a lot easier for everyone. Anyway, Michelle is gone,

and I’m keeping my dick to myself for a while. I really am fed up of all the turmoil and other people’s

toothpaste clogging up my sink. To be honest, I’m enjoying the peace and quiet.

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Give me a call when you get back. It would be good to see you again, assuming you make it

back in one piece.

Later,
Colin.

I’d given up trying to keep track of Colin’s romances years ago. I couldn’t even

remember names. Katy always had something to say about them all, but I kept my silence,

mildly annoyed by her pronouncements on my best friend’s love life. She was a fine one to

talk, my little faithless cat, always in search of a decent fuck. This time, when I got back, I

was going to put an end to it. If nothing else, I wouldn’t have to worry about forgetting

birthdays, anniversaries and Christmas presents. I wouldn’t have to summon up an erection

because Katy was finally in the mood. The absence of emails from her said it all. So, no, she

was in no position to comment on Colin’s occasional soap operas.

As for me, I had no idea why Colin flitted from one Great Love to another. He was

obviously searching for something but, after ten years, he still hadn’t found it. It didn’t

matter—not to me—it was just the way he was. I enjoyed the long, drunken autopsies when

they were over.

I wanted to see him. I wanted to make sure that the dreams I’d had were just that—a

curry-crazy mind-fuck. They still nagged at me and I needed to put them to rest. I hit the

reply button.

Bloody hell, again?
I never even got to meet this one.

Ah, well, I’m sure you’ll find someone one of these days. It’s probably time I kicked Katy into

touch. I’ve been out in the sticks for weeks and haven’t heard so much as a whisper from her. I’m sure
she’s kept herself entertained, which is part of the problem. I’m tired of keeping up the pretence and the

habit.

So, yeah, when I get back and get everything squared away at work, I’ll give you a call and

make arrangements to come up to Oxford. God knows, I could use a decent pint and a good meal. I’ve

spent the last three weeks making do with MREs, supplemented with eggs from the chickens the men

keep at the base. I’m probably heading home in the next day or two.

Try not to fall in love in the meantime.

Catch you later.

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I hit ‘send’ and turned off the laptop. I wanted to be back home, back in my flat. I

wanted to hear the everyday buzz of traffic and rain spattering against the windows. I was

lucky—I could leave this place, walk away from the biting winter wind, the dust and the

carnage. Better still, I could walk away in one piece. I thought of Beaumont, Roberts and the

others who’d leave with everlasting memories and scars. There’d be bits of shrapnel that the

surgeons couldn’t remove, reminders that would set off airport scanners and nag painfully in

damp weather.

Afghanistan was a mess that we Brits would probably have to live with for a long

time. There was much more to the story than IEDs, broken men and troop surges. A

labyrinth of threads twisted back through time, across borders, across oceans. My work here

was done, but there were other paths to follow. I had ideas.

I pulled out my notebook and started to write.

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S.A. Meade

Chapter Two

It always takes me a few days to fit back into what counts as a normal life for me.

There’s always a stack of bills, junk mail and other bits and pieces to sort through. I almost

always have to clean out the fridge because of something I left behind that should’ve been

thrown away. This time it was leftover curry. It took me a day or two to listen to all the

messages on my phone. Most of them were pointless. One was from Mum, telling me to give

her a call when I got home so I could go for dinner. There was another from my sister asking

the same. Katy left one message saying she’d call back. I found the ones Colin had

mentioned. His voice sounded weary, bemused when he asked me to phone him.

I worked my way through the list. Mum first, then Ellen. Katy was number three. I felt

a twinge of guilt, just a small one, that she wasn’t the first person I’d phoned. Afghanistan

had just made me realise that I needed to break things off, for both our sakes. The trouble

was I couldn’t be arsed to break up with Katy, not at the moment. It was too much effort. It

seemed easier just to let things bump along for a little while longer. I punched in her number

and waited, staring at the photograph of us on the shelf.

“Hello?”

“Hi.”

She was smiling in the picture. It had been taken while we were on holiday in Paris. It

had been a cold day—I had my arm around her waist. Her pale blonde hair blew in fine

wisps across her face. It had been a long time ago, back when we couldn’t keep our hands off

each other.

“You’re back.” There was a false brightness to her voice.

“Yup.” I wondered whether I should ask her to dinner or something. Instead, I waited.

“So.” A gusty, little sigh. “Are you doing anything tonight?” She only asked the

question because it was expected of her. It was the same every bloody time.

“I didn’t have anything planned. Fancy going out for a meal?” Translation: Fancy

having something to eat and going back to your place for a shag? It had been a while. My

penis twitched a little. I didn’t really want Katy, but it clearly did. I was too tired to argue.

“Yeah, okay. Where?”

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I glanced up at the ceiling and went through my list of venues. “How about Le Petit

Filet?” It was only a few streets away from hers. We could meet there, eat, back to her place,

shag. Pretend we still liked each other. The usual.

“That’s fine. Eight o’ clock?”

“I’ll see you there.”

“Brilliant. You can tell me all about your trip.” She made it sound like I was going to

tell her about a holiday. Katy’s idea of current events revolved around the gossip columns in

the papers. I wondered how we’d limped along for three years.

“If you like.” I was already thinking beyond the phone call. I was thinking about

lunch and the bottle of beer in the fridge. “I’ll see you at eight.” I tried to smile.

“Bye.” The line went dead. I put the phone down and headed for the kitchen.

* * * *

I spotted Katy sitting at a table in the corner. She was studying the menu as if she’d

never seen it before, her brow creased. She paused now and then to push her hair from her

eyes. She glanced up and smiled when I walked in, then stood so I could kiss her. A quick

peck on the lips. She tasted of strawberries. Her hair shone in the soft light. For a moment, I

understood why I had once loved her. I wrestled with a nagging guilt and wished I could

find those feelings again. I wondered if it was my fault that things had come to this.

“You look well.” She sat down again and sipped her wine.

“You don’t look so bad yourself.” Black suited her, brought out the blue in her eyes.

“Thanks.”

“So, what have you been up to while I was away?” I watched her face.

Her eyes slid back to the menu and she shrugged. “You know, the usual. Busy with

work. Going out with the girls, drinking too much.”

Yeah, right.

The waiter appeared. I asked for a bottle of Stella and ordered the steak and pomme

frites. Katy ordered the poulet Marengo.

“So… How was it?” Katy picked at a piece of bread.

“Rough. Our lot have got it bad over there.”

“I read your stuff. It sounds harrowing.”

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“It was—it is.” I wondered how Captain Beaumont was doing, whether they’d

managed to send him home.

“I can imagine.” She gave a theatrical little shudder.

“I really don’t want to talk about it yet. It’s all still a bit mixed up in my head, you

know?”

“That’s all right. I understand.” She smiled again. This time it nearly reached her eyes.

Somehow, we found enough to talk about to get us through dinner—mutual friends,

gossip, desultory plans for a holiday in California sometime in the spring.

After dinner, we walked through the fog back to Katy’s. She took my hand and led me

up the narrow staircase to her flat. I felt the old, familiar tug at my loins when she slid out of

her coat and moved, without a word, to the bedroom. I followed blindly, hating how easily I

surrendered to habit and to my ever-twitching dick. We undressed in silence and took refuge

from the winter chill beneath the bedclothes. Katy closed her eyes when I kissed her. She put

her arms around my waist. Her hands were light on my back, her movements sadly

mechanical. If I hadn’t been so damn desperate for a fuck, I would’ve walked out. I needed a

sound kick up the arse.

“That’s nice,” she whispered when I slipped a finger into her and wiggled it around a

bit, checking to see if the pitch was ready, as it were.

“Mmm.” I nuzzled at a tit and rubbed against her. She wriggled, sighed and reached

for my dick.

“Please, Evan.”

That was always my cue to proceed. I nudged into her, sliding in easily. My dick

followed a well-worn path. I tried not to think about that as I tried to find friction, some

tightness…somewhere. She was hot and slick. She worked her hands up and down my back,

pushed her hips against mine while little moaning noises escaped her lips. I silenced her with

a kiss, avoiding her tongue.

“Oh…” A tiny sigh and a gush of liquid warmth. I’d done fairly well, considering. I

took a deep breath and plunged deeper, finally feeling the tug, the rush. For a moment, I

almost loved her, almost found what we’d lost…and came.

Glad that my duty was done, I rolled off Katy and rested on my back.

She edged closer and rested her head on my shoulder. “Thank you.” That was all she

ever said these days.

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I closed my eyes for a moment and felt the silk of her hair on my skin. For a moment

there was a little rush of sorrow and longing for our past, for those far-off days when I had

loved her, when I couldn’t tire of her. Back then she had been sweet and funny. That woman

had disappeared somewhere, along with the man who used to make her laugh.

“My pleasure.” I wondered how soon I could decently leave. I felt like a bastard but

there just didn’t seem to be any point in staying. We both needed to get on with our own

lives.

We rested in silence for a while. Katy’s breathing changed, became slower, deeper. She

rolled away, curled up on her side. That was my chance. I crawled out of bed, went for a piss

and retrieved my clothes. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d slipped away while she slept but it

was certainly going to be the last.

I found a scrap of paper and scribbled.

I’d better go. It’s been a long day and the jet lag has caught up with me.

I’ll speak to you later.

Thanks for the evening.

It was a relief to walk into the fog. The damp chill erased the last of Katy’s perfume. I

wanted nothing but my own bed and my own company. I wanted time to figure out how to

walk away from her once and for all.

* * * *

“My god, you are a gutless twat.” Colin’s voice was on the edge of laughter.

“No, not gutless. I just can’t be arsed with the emotional hassle.” I hadn’t realised how

much I’d missed that Welsh lilt.

“What makes you think there’ll be any hassle? Jesus, Evan. You wine and dine her,

fuck her and creep out when she’s asleep. Don’t you think that if Katy was upset she

would’ve phoned you by now?”

I glanced up at the clock. It was one in the afternoon. There were no messages on the

answering machine, no terse text messages, not even an email. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

“Just do it, man.”

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“Yeah, yeah, one of these days.”

“I tell you what, when you come up to Oxford we can talk tactics. Better yet, I’ll just

kick your arse. That should do it.”

“All

right.”

“So when are you coming up?”

“I’m not sure yet. I’m kicking around some ideas. There’s a professor of oriental

studies I wouldn’t mind talking to and some research I could be doing up there. I might

come up for a few days, if that’s all right.” My hand tightened around the receiver. I needed

this visit, to put my mind at rest—either that or mess me up altogether.

“No problem, mate. There’s always room on my couch, you know that. What have

you got up your sleeve?”

“Pakistan.”

“What?”

“Pakistan. There’s a lot of toing and froing of unsavoury characters and arms between

there and Afghanistan. The borders up in the northwest are a bit porous. I’d like to look into

that a bit more.”

“Have you got a death wish?”

“No, I’m just nosey.”

Colin sighed. “Get yourself up here soon, Evan. We need to talk.” The humour had

gone from his voice. “Don’t get yourself killed over a story. It was bad enough when you

were in Afghanistan. I was worried sick every time I heard the news.”

“I won’t. Don’t worry. I got out of there in one piece, didn’t I?”

“That’s because you were protected by soldiers—well-trained, well-armed soldiers

with armoured vehicles, medics, the works. It won’t be like that in Pakistan.”

“It’ll be fine.”

“You’re insane, do you know that?”

“I’m a journalist. Sometimes you have to stick your neck out. It’s the only job I know.”

How did I explain the rush from the moment I arrived in some crazy danger zone? I

loved that first flush of excitement when weeks of digging revealed a secret, an angle none of

my colleagues had found. I loved that distinctive third-world fug, the unpaved streets, the

strange sunlight, the edge, the uncertainty. I loved getting up in the morning and wondering

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S.A. Meade

what lay in store for me that day. How the hell did I explain that to Colin, who spent his days

teaching poetry to undergraduates?

“Why don’t you get a nice, local job? Some provincial rag where you can write about

knitting circles and WI meetings?”

“Because I’d die of boredom.”

“Better that than get kidnapped by madmen. We need to get you straightened out,

boyo. We need to find you a reason to stay here.” The vehemence in Colin’s voice had me

staring at the phone for a few seconds.

“Please, no matchmaking. No. Once I’m done with Katy, that’s it. I’m taking a break. I

haven’t got time to get all tangled up again.”

Colin laughed. “It’s not all that bad, not if we find you the right person.”

“I hope you’re not suggesting any of your cast-offs.”

Another laugh.”No. Don’t worry. I promise I won’t play matchmaker.”

“Good. Otherwise I’d have to terminate our friendship.”

“I wouldn’t want that. You’re the only one who’ll listen to my endless woes.”

I could hear him smile. It was easy to imagine him stretched out on his settee, a glass

of wine on the floor. I envied him that comfortable flat and his ease with life. There were

times when I wished I could settle for a provincial paper and knitting circle stories. “Let me

get in touch with this Professor Emerson chap. As soon as I have some dates, I’ll let you

know. You haven’t got any conferences or anything coming up in the next few weeks, have

you?”

“Nope. I’m here for the rest of the semester. Conference season isn’t until summer and

I don’t fancy any of them this year.”

“What?” Conferences were Colin’s favourite hunting ground. I couldn’t recall a single

conference when he hadn’t come back with some tale of seduction, some tenuous promise of

true love.

“Like you, there are some things I can’t be arsed with. Anyway, a week at the Open

University campus in Milton Keynes discussing seventeenth century metaphysical poets

doesn’t fill me with joy the way it once did. A room full of fusty academics in shabby cords

and tweed jackets? Ugh! No thanks.”

“Now who’s lost their mind? I remember that used to be your idea of nirvana.”

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“Time to grow up and move on, dear boy,” he drawled, in his best impression of a

jaded thespian.

“If you say so.” I looked out of the window and wished I was there. I don’t think I’d

ever needed his absurdities and company as much as I did at that moment. If I didn’t have a

week full of work stretching ahead of me, I would’ve got in my car and driven there.

“You all right?”

“Yeah. Fine. It’s Sunday afternoon and here I am, in my flat, talking to you when I

could be out doing… Well, I could be out.”

“I’ll make sure you get out when you get here.”

“It works for me.”

“Good. I’ll see you soon.”

* * * *

The boss thought the Pakistan angle was a good one. He checked with the insurance

department to make sure that they would cover a trip that flagrantly disregarded Foreign

Office advice. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d done that. However, the entire country seemed

to be a no-go area. The insurance people weren’t happy. There was a rapid-fire exchange of

emails between my boss and the department head. Higher-ups were pulled into the

argument. I had to write a report justifying the reasons for my apparently suicidal mission. It

seemed that a fair few people shared Colin’s view.

It frustrated the hell out of me. I wanted something good to come out of the trip. I

wanted to nail the bastards who helped supply men and arms to the Taliban. It was my way

of avenging Captain Beaumont, to expose more fingers in that deadly pie. It seemed the least

I could do and, I have to confess, it furnished the pretext for my need for another rush.

In the end, strings were pulled, favours called in. I was given the go-ahead to fly to

Pakistan. I’d meet up with my armed bodyguards at the airport in Islamabad and the

insurance people were satisfied with that arrangement. It certainly made me feel better.

* * * *

Katy sounded bored and tired when I phoned her. “I wasn’t expecting you to call.”

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I tugged at my tie, let it drop onto the arm of the settee. “I’m going to have to cancel

Friday night.”

“Why?” A small, gusty sigh heralded her displeasure.

“Colin’s just phoned. He’s down in London for a symposium on Friday and so he’s

going to crash here. We’re going to grab a bite to eat and a few beers. You can join us if you

like.” I added the invitation out of politeness.

There was a moment of silence. “I don’t think so. I don’t think I can bear another

evening of ‘remember when’ stories.”

“We can go out Saturday night, can’t we?”

“No.” Her voice was clipped. “Don’t you remember? It’s Sharon’s hen night.”

“Ah, I forgot about that. It doesn’t matter. We can go out another night.”

“I don’t see why we have to upend everything just because Colin decides to visit.”

Petulance coloured every word.

“Because I haven’t seen him in months. I saw you four days ago.”

“Honestly, anyone would think you two were joined at the hip. I see where I fit in

now.”

I fought back the urge to hurl the phone across the room. “I asked you if you wanted

to join us.”

“I said I didn’t want to.”

“Fine, don’t.” I hoped my relief didn’t show. “I know you don’t like him, but he’s my

best friend. I owe him some time.”

“Whatever.” Katy sighed again. “Go on, then. Go and get rat-arsed with your best

chum. Don’t mind me. I’m sure I can find something else to do. Goodbye, Evan.”

The line went dead. I turned my phone off and tossed it onto the coffee table.

* * * *

As old university chums do, Colin and I ate too much, drank too much and sat up into

the small hours talking the deep, meaningful talk of the truly inebriated. It always sounds so

profound at the time but, in the cold light of day, you always realise you’ve been talking

complete bollocks. At two in the morning, we were down to the last dregs of whisky, both

sprawled on the settee, both more or less out for the count.

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“I have a good question.” Colin drained the last of his whisky. “With you buggering

off to Pakistan, which is a very stupid and dangerous thing to do, assume it’s your last night

on earth.”

“Well, this is cheerful.” I rested against the cushions and squinted at him. I was

perilously close to the room-spinning stage of drunkenness and didn’t want to move.

He raised a hand. “No, no, hear me out.”

I tried to sit up and failed. The cushions were too soft and I couldn’t fight their pull.

“Oh, all right. But this is the last question. I’m knackered.”

“What do you regret doing—or not doing?”

“God, that’s deep.”

His eyes were no longer bleary. He’d found some hidden reserve of sobriety,

somewhere. “Well?”

I thought of the argument I’d just had with Katy. “Katy. I regret Katy.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to go into it right now.” I didn’t. There were a multitude of

reasons and I was too tired to run through them. I looked at Colin. He had stretched his legs

across the coffee table. “What about you? What’s your big regret?”

He took a deep breath, stared into his empty glass then set it down carefully. “Do you

remember that wedding we went to? When we ended up having to share a bed in that

manky bed and breakfast?”

I did remember. I sobered up a bit. “Yeah.”

It had been an old bed with an ancient mattress, one of those that’s so old it sags in the

middle. I’d woken up in the middle of the night to find Colin’s arm wrapped around my

waist, his dick hard against my arse. I had a drunken semi-lob myself. For a few moments I’d

wondered if I was still drunk, because I’d found myself wanting him. I’d fought the urge to

ease myself back, just to see what would happen. Instead, I’d threaded my fingers through

his and closed my eyes. Colin had murmured in his sleep and edged closer. I’d kept him

close and fallen asleep with his breath warm on my skin, too tired to wonder why it felt right

and good.

I’d woken to an empty bed in the morning, torn between relief and a small,

indefinable sorrow. It had been another one of those things that had never been mentioned

again.

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“I woke up in the night wanting you so badly. That’s what I regret, that I didn’t…”

Colin stared at his hands then slumped against the cushions.

Silence fell between us. I looked at his hands, too, then at his face. For one, long

moment, I resisted the urge to lean over and push a stray twist of hair from his forehead.

Everything churned inside me.

“I think we’ve both had too much to drink.” I rose, unsteady on my feet. “I think I

need to sleep.” I didn’t want to confront the mess his confession had stirred up.

“Yeah.” He smiled and smothered a yawn and closed his eyes. “It’s all bollocks,

right?” Within seconds, he was asleep.

I dragged the spare duvet out of the linen cupboard and draped it across him. He was

out for the count. I leant over and kissed the corner of his mouth. “It isn’t bollocks, mate,” I

whispered. “That’s the problem.”

Colin stirred. For a few seconds, his lips parted beneath mine. For a few seconds, there

was silence. His hand brushed my face and fell away. I wondered if I’d imagined the

moment, because he slept on, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

I crawled into my own bed and spent what remained of the night staring at the ceiling.

STOLEN SUMMER

S.A. Meade

Chapter Three

Colin’s car was already there when I pulled into the broad sweep of gravel in front of

the house. I retrieved my bag from the back seat and glanced up at the upstairs windows. A

curtain twitched open. Colin opened the window and waved. “Come on up, it’s open.”

I climbed the stairs and worked on pretending that everything was normal.

“Hello, mate.” He stood in the hallway, a bottle of beer in each hand. “I bet you could

use this.”

“You’ve got that right.” I dropped my bag, took the beer and engaged in the

traditional, manly, one-armed hug. The bottle was cold in my hand.

Colin’s flat sprawled across the top floor of an Edwardian house. The huge living

room was filled with light from three sash windows. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through

the bare trees to fall across the polished floorboards and faded Turkish rugs. As usual, there

were books everywhere, spilling from the bookshelves on either side of the fireplace, stacked

high on the dining table, scattered across the coffee table. One of the two bedrooms was

entirely devoted to books. Guests, like me, slept on the settee. Special guests, of course,

shared his bed. There were more books in his bedroom, stacked on the mantelpiece of the

fireplace, in boxes under the bed and on the top shelf of the wardrobe.

“You’re looking well,” he said.

“Thanks.” I took a gulp of beer and sank into the cushions. I tried not to think of those

dreams, of that careless, drunken kiss, of the memories they’d stirred.

“Fancy Italian tonight?”

“That sounds good to me.”

“So, you’re still going to Pakistan?”

“Yup.”

He shook his head, his eyes suddenly grave. That took me by surprise. It was a rare

moment when I made Colin unhappy. We weren’t like that. “I hope to fuck you know what

you’re doing.”

“I have a pretty good idea.”

“You’re a feckless git sometimes, Harrison. You know that, don’t you?”

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I looked down at my beer. “Yes. I suppose I can be. But you weren’t in Afghanistan,

mate. You didn’t see the mess. You didn’t see a guardsman with half his face blown off. You

didn’t see a bloody good officer blown into the air. I want to find out more about the bastards

who did that. If I can expose those fuckers and help bring them to justice, then I don’t think

that’s so feckless.”

“What if you get kidnapped? It happens, you know. I looked at the Foreign Office

website. They don’t want anyone going there.”

“I know all that. I’ll have armed bodyguards.”

“Like that’s going to make a difference. You’d need a small army to keep you safe.”

He slammed his empty bottle on to the coffee table. “How about those of us you’re leaving

behind? While you’re off playing Big Time Heroic Journalist, we’ll be worrying ourselves

sick. Remember Daniel Pearl?”

“I remember him well enough.” Pearl’s fate had nagged at me since I’d decided to go

to Pakistan.

“I don’t want that happening to you.” He walked into the kitchen and returned with

two more beers.

“I promise I won’t be careless.” His anger left me groping for words. “Honest, Colin, if

I thought it was that dangerous I wouldn’t go. Even I have my limits.” I fought an urge to

touch him, to pat him on the shoulder and tell him I’d be fine.

He smiled, then, a sudden, brilliant smile. The old mischief returned to his eyes.

“Good. See that you’re not.”

“Thanks, mate. I promise, I won’t do anything stupid.” I wouldn’t. I just hoped that no

one else would.

* * * *

The Italian restaurant was a short walk away. The watery sunlight had gone, replaced

by gathering clouds. The cold breeze smelt of rain. The maitre d’ clearly knew Colin. He

ushered us to a booth in the softly lit corner, handed us the menus then reappeared with a

bowl of olives and a basket of fresh, warm bread. The scent of garlic drifted from the kitchen.

“So what’s good here?” I looked at the menu, hard pressed to make a selection.

“The fettucini al tonno is good.” Colin plucked an olive from the bowl.

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“I’ll have that, then.”

“Beer?”

“Yeah, I don’t fancy mixing.” I took a piece of bread and set the menu down. “So, are

you going to tell me about Michelle?”

“There’s not much to tell. She was very nice to look at.” He tapped the side of his

head. “There just wasn’t much in there.”

“Oooh, cold.”

“True.”

“Your problem is that you’re too bloody picky.”

Colin rolled his eyes. “Cut me a break, mate. I’m not picky. I’m just discerning.”

If I’d wanted to, I could’ve probably reeled through the list of cast-offs in the ten years

that I’d known him. “Perhaps you should stop thinking with your dick.”

He laughed. “Touché. Perhaps I should go with my head and my heart instead. The

results could be much more interesting.”

“That’s certainly what I intend to do next time.”

“If you can be arsed.”

“Yeah, that too.”

“Have you broken it off with Katy yet?”

“No, not yet. I’m working up to it.”

“Fuck me. For someone who’s about to bugger off to Pakistan and get his head

chopped off, you’re a bit bloody gutless.”

“Yeah, I know.” I picked at the piece of bread. “I’m probably thinking it’s going to be

worse than it is. I can’t imagine she’ll be that upset, given that we’ve spent so little time

together since I got back.”

The waiter returned to take our orders. I was glad of the break. I didn’t feel like

talking about Katy. She was my nagging guilt, like something mouldy at the back of the

fridge. One of those things you know you should toss out but you just can’t bring yourself to

see what a nasty, stinking mess it’s become.

“You’re a writer, for fuck’s sake, you should be able to come up with an articulate

break-up speech. Give me a few more beers and I’ll write one for you.”

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“Perhaps you could write a poem.” I looked at him, his brown eyes brilliant in the

light of the candle. The rush of warmth I felt scared me more than the prospect of going to

Pakistan. I cursed that long-ago korma and the screwed-up thoughts it had left me with.

“Perhaps I could. But I wouldn’t waste my words on her.” Colin plucked another

olive. “These are good. Try one.” He held one to my mouth.

I took it between my teeth. For a moment, his fingers lingered on my lips. Something

inside me faltered.

“Very nice.” I returned the gesture.

“Yes, indeed.” Colin’s closed his lips around the olive, around my fingertips. I froze as

a thrill as sharp and swift as electricity passed through me. This wasn’t happening. I

wondered if I’d passed into some sort of parallel universe where Colin’s touch made me

cross my legs beneath the table in an attempt to quell the arousal.

The moment passed. He reached for his beer. “They have good olives here. Very

moreish.”

“Yes.” I fumbled around for normality. “Very.” I wasn’t sure he was talking about the

olives.

“So tell me about your week.” He leant back. His hand rested on the table, only inches

from mine.

“It was pretty boring. I did some research on tribes, wrote up a bunch of questions for

Professor Emerson.”

“Bloody Pakistan.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

A touch across my knuckles, soft and light like the drift of a feather, jolted me out of

the conversation, out of rational thought. Colin trailed his forefinger over the back of my

hand, tracing a vein there. I looked at him. His eyes held a mix of defiance and uncertainty. I

couldn’t even imagine what mine told him. I couldn’t move my hand. I wasn’t sure I wanted

to. Instead, my fingers wove through his, in that absent way that sometimes happens, no

conscious thought guiding them.

“So, what does your research tell you?” Colin swept his thumb across my palm and

lingered on the underside of my wrist. The lightness of his touch coiled around my arm like

ivy, drifted south and fuelled the growing ache in my groin.

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“That it’s a mess.” So was I. I had been reduced to a jumble of thoughts—desire, fear,

curiosity. Part of me wanted to know where this was leading, the other part was almost

terrified. I was grateful for the privacy of the booth. Those few diners who had us in their

line of sight were too busy with their own evenings to be bothered with ours.

“Here we go.” The waitress returned with our meals. God alone knows what she

thought of two men holding hands at her table.

Colin eased his hand away. I looked at him, sorry that dinner had arrived. The aroma

of linguine was small consolation for the sudden absence of his touch.

He reached across the table and deftly twirled his fork into my pasta. “That looks

nice.” He chewed it thoughtfully for a few seconds. “It tastes nice, too.”

“It is.” I sought refuge in the food. “How’s yours?” I glanced at the chicken on his

plate.

He speared a piece with his fork and held it to my lips. “Why don’t you try it and

see?”

I tasted garlic, onions and herbs beneath the sharp tang of tomato. Colin held my gaze

with his. I was a cobra hypnotised by a charmer. “Tasty.”

“It’s a good thing you’re not a restaurant critic. I don’t think your columns would be

very long or informative.” He grinned.

“No, I suppose not.” I wondered where my words had gone. I wondered where the

evening was going.

“If you weren’t a journalist, what would you do? What would you want to do?”

I nearly dropped my fork when he covered my foot with his. He brushed it languidly

over my ankle.

“I have no idea. I think I’d feel lost.”

“Are you sure? Is there nothing that would satisfy you if you couldn’t be a journalist

anymore, if you couldn’t just hop on a plane and find yourself in the thick of things?” Colin’s

foot crept up the inside of my calf.

I swallowed. “I’d miss the rush.” My heart hammered against my ribs.

He raised an eyebrow. “Really? Don’t you think you could find that rush elsewhere?”

“I…I…don’t know. I suppose it’s possible.” My hand trembled.

Colin’s foot ventured further, caressing my thigh.

I set my fork down and leaned across the table. “What the hell are you doing?”

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He leant forward, took my chin in his hand and kissed me—a swift, fierce kiss that

swept the last of my appetite away. When he spoke, his voice was a low whisper. “I can’t

bloody help myself.”

I stared at him. The echo of his lips on mine remained. “I think we should go.” I hated

that I wanted him to kiss me again. I hated the hornets’ nest his touch stirred.

“Yeah, I think you’re right.” He sat back in his chair and waved to the waitress. I

didn’t dare look around the room. My face burnt.

The waitress brought the bill and Colin sorted carefully through his wallet, leaving the

money on the table. Outside, a cold, steady rain whispered on the pavement. We hurried

back to the flat in silence. I scarcely felt the rain. I was too screwed up.

I held on to the banister as we climbed the stairs and tried to put words into order,

some way to make sense of what had happened.

“What the hell are you up to?” I hung my jacket up in the hall. “What was that all

about?” I couldn’t stop shaking.

“I’ve something I need to tell you.” Colin’s eyes were dark and unreadable.

I leaned against the wall. The cool plaster beneath my fingertips seemed to be my last

link with reality. “You’d better tell me, then, because right now I’m not sure I’m ready for

this.”

“Give me a minute.” Colin’s voice was hoarse. He cupped my face in his hands, his

skin cool from the rain. He pressed against me, pushing me to the wall.

My hands trembled. I had to put them somewhere—on his waist felt right.

When Colin kissed me, it was impossible to object. The ferocity of earlier was gone,

replaced by hesitant little sipping kisses. He moved his hands to my hair and he groaned

when I kissed him back. Every limb shook, every inch of me ached to be touched by him.

Reality took flight and I clung to him in the softly lit hall. The scent of his aftershave,

sandalwood, rose between us.

When he broke away, I was lost. I stared at him and struggled to breathe. “What is it,

Colin? What do you want to say?” My voice shook.

His fingers trembled on my skin. “Christ. This is tough.”

Somewhere along the line, something had shifted, fallen out of kilter. I wondered if I’d

had too much to drink. I knew I hadn’t. My hands were suddenly damp with perspiration

and I knew why. “Tell me, please.”

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“Believe me, Evan. This is hard. This is a deal-breaker.”

His intensity scared me.

Colin took a deep breath and looked at me. “I love you, Evan.”

“I know that.” Relief washed through me. I’d been expecting something horrible, like

he had a terminal illness. “We’ve known each other for ages. I love you too.”

He swallowed. “That’s not quite what I meant.”

Jesus H. Christ.

I stared at him. I saw him for the first time. I saw the pain of this secret he’d kept for

God knows how long. “We’re not talking brotherly love, are we?” It was hard to breathe.

Every clear thought, every certainty, flew out of the window. Perhaps even Beaumont had

known more about me than I ever had. The guilt and shame of that night and those dreams

disappeared. Stunned as I was, relief nearly overwhelmed me.

“No.” His voice was scarcely a whisper. Uncertainty clouded his eyes.

I scrambled to find something to say, something that would make sense. “Since

when?”

“A long time.”

It explained so much—the restless flitting from partner to partner, Colin’s perpetual

dissatisfaction with them. I looked back through them all, and understood. “Bloody hell.”

“Please don’t say you hate me.”

“No, I don’t hate you at all.” His pain gnawed at me. For a moment I felt like crying.

Instead, I took his face in my hands and tried to find something to say. Inside, I was all

messed up because I wasn’t repulsed by the confession. Far from it. That’s what scared me

more than anything, that I couldn’t see anything wrong with it. It was like finding the last

word in a crossword puzzle, the one that ties all the others together. You see the theme the

puzzle writer was aiming for and it all makes perfect sense in spite of all the time you spent

wondering what that last word was.

I thought back to the day we’d met, me soaking wet and summoned out of the shower

by the doorbell, him standing there all hopeful in the doorway, wanting to know if the room

was still available. The way he’d looked at me had meant nothing back then—now it meant

everything. I remembered that night with the beer and the porn. The one we’d never talked

about again.

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I leaned against the wall. There was nowhere else I could go. Colin was so close that

his heart pounded against my chest. His eyes were huge and sad.

“How long have you felt this way?”

“Remember that night in the flat? When we watched those films?”

“Yes, I remember.” My dick ached with the memory.

“I wanted to be ashamed. I wanted to feel guilty about what we did but I couldn’t. I

spent the whole damn night lying in my room wanting you. I wanted to fuck you so badly.”

I felt the memory tug at me. An ache grew in my groin and my jeans weren’t going to

hide it for much longer. I didn’t even want to think about Katy, not when Colin’s breath was

warm on my skin and his erection pressed against mine. I remembered that frantic heat, our

crazy, rapid breathing loud in the silence of the flat.

“Yeah, I wanted that too.” I took a deep breath and touched my forehead to his. I was

about to step off a huge cliff. I knew it but I couldn’t stop. No woman’s closeness had ever

made me ache the way Colin’s did. “If it’s any consolation, I didn’t sleep much that night,

either.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

His breath hitched when I slid my hand towards his crotch, to the bulge there. I kissed

him, feeling his stubble. Colin’s hand was light on my face. His breath escaped in soft little

gusts. I curled my fingers in his hair, intoxicated by his aftershave, by his nearness, by him.

The years fell away. This time it was different. This time we were sober, there was no porn to

set us off. This time it felt right.

“Jesus, Evan.” Colin pressed his lips against mine. He pushed me against the wall

once more. He deepened the kiss and I groaned—a deep, primal sound wrenched from

somewhere inside, somewhere dark and secret. I shuddered when he slipped his hand into

my boxers. The ache became something fierce, something that needed easing. No woman

had ever reduced me to this mess of need and longing.

Colin moved his thumb across the tip of my dick, brushing the moisture that gathered

there. He broke away from the kiss, held his thumb to his lips and licked the pearl of fluid. I

nearly lost it there and then.

“Are you sure you want this, Evan? Are you sure you want me?”

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I trembled and struggled for breath. I traced the curve of his mouth with my fingers.

“Yes.” I couldn’t believe the word had left my mouth. There was the air of a dream about the

moment but the rasp of Colin’s stubble beneath my fingers was real enough. There could be

no going back. Every nerve demanded release. The ache was huge.

I took a deep breath and stepped off the cliff. “Yes, I’m sure.”

His touch was all I needed. Suddenly frantic, we tore at each other’s clothes. The wall

was smooth against my back but I no longer felt the chill, just the novelty of Colin’s skin on

mine. His erection rubbed against mine and it felt so fucking good. He worked his tongue

down my neck to my chest, where he paused to take a nipple between his teeth. It was hard

not to cry out when he sucked and licked and moved on. He dropped to his knees and slid

his hands beneath my cheeks and, God, when he took me into his mouth…

I bit my lip and gripped his shoulders. He toyed with me as if he was toying with an

ice cream cone, his tongue swirling around my rim, across the tip, along my shaft. I’d always

prided myself on my self-control but Colin was doing a fine job of undermining it. The ache

threatened to become an explosion.

“I’m going to come,” was all I managed. My hips bucked and I thrust into his mouth,

finding the warm darkness at the back of his throat.

Colin clasped my arse and raised his head. “That’s the idea.”

I stared at him. “Have we lost our minds?”

“I haven’t.” He lowered his head once more and ran his tongue across my balls.

“You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

I wasn’t really in the best position to judge. I touched his face, torn between wanting

his mouth on me once more and running away as fast as I could. “I…don’t… I don’t know.”

“Evan, if you want me to stop, just say the word. I’ll be all right. We can forget this

ever happened.” The uncertainty in his eyes gave the lie to those brave words. Something

inside me turned over. I wanted this. I wanted him.

“I don’t want you to stop and, frankly, that scares me.” I reached for him, pulled him

back to feet. His cock was rigid against mine. His heart pounded against my chest. I stroked

the hair from his face and breathed in the scent of his aftershave. “I have something to tell

you before we go any further.” I kissed him and took a deep breath.

“I’m beginning to think that’s why Katy means so little. I’m beginning to think that it

should’ve been you all along.”

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“You are?” He brushed my shoulder with his lips and I shivered.

“Yes.” I took his face between my hands and kissed him.

Colin moved his hips against mine, a slow, even tango. The moments of dormancy

were over. I matched him move for move, seeking that friction. He moaned against my lips

and swept his hands down my back to my arse. His fingers bit into the flesh, caught between

me and the wall.

“Oh, Jesus, Evan.”

I couldn’t speak. I held him close and pressed my hips to his. His dick rubbed against

mine, driving me on.

“Bedroom,” he gasped between fevered kisses.

“Yes.” I wasn’t sure I could stand for much longer.

Colin held me close and pressed his mouth to mine. I leaned against him, weak,

shaken, breathless.

We reeled into the bedroom and fell together on to the bed. Colin wrapped his hand

around my dick once more. Mine found his. We lay on our sides, nose to nose, forehead to

forehead. For a moment, I thought of that night then, as Colin covered my mouth with his

once more, I forgot. This was different, this meant something. Jesus, how it meant something.

This time there was no shame.

Electricity coiled up my spine. The tension gave way and I cried out when I came. I

reached for Colin, covered his mouth with mine. He whimpered and thrust into my hand

once more and released a long, shuddering sigh. We faced each other in the breathless silence

that followed. I touched his face and he kissed my palm.

Colin felt like home, like a fire-lit room on a rainy night. Katy had never made me feel

that way. I kissed him once more and closed my eyes. For the moment, he was all I needed.

We rested in a silence broken only by the whisper of cars passing through the rain on

the street below. The streetlight flickered pink before it turned to yellow, casting its light

across the floor. Colin’s breathing finally slowed and I sat up, stunned and dizzy.

“Did we really just…?”

Colin smiled. “Oh, yes.”

“Jesus Christ.” I looked at him, seeing how beautiful he was.

“Are you all right?” He eased into a sitting position. His dark hair was mussed.

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I had to reach out and smooth it from his forehead. “Never better.” There was relief in

knowing, in resolution.

He took my hand. His lips lingered on my fingers. “No regrets?”

“No.”

The mattress dipped and his footfall whispered on the floorboards. The toilet flushed

and he returned with a damp flannel. “You’re beautiful.” He trailed his hand along my jaw.

He wiped the drying semen from my chest with a tender hand. The flannel was cool against

my skin.

“So are you.” He was. Lean and pale, long thighs. I ran my fingers across his chest,

feeling the soft, fine, dark hair.

“I can’t even begin to tell you how relieved I am to hear you say that.” Colin tossed

the flannel aside and kissed me—a sweet, gentle kiss, full of promise and unspoken words. I

kissed him back, lost in his scent, in him.

“Are you all right?” He drew away, ran his finger across my lips.

Our breathing filled the silence. Outside, the rain quickened against the window. I

rolled on to my side and looked at him. He was washed with gold in the lamplight.

I touched his mouth with my finger, tracing the curve of his lips. “Never better. You?”

He smiled and kissed my finger. “Need you ask?”

“Just checking.” My dick twitched. I wanted him again. I wanted to make sure this

was right. I kissed his throat, eased him on to his back and tasted his skin. I wrestled with the

strangeness of it all. I was used to the soft smoothness of Katy’s skin and here I was kissing

my best mate. I paused for a moment and inhaled the scent of his skin, a milky sweetness

beneath the sandalwood. Nothing wrong there. The moment passed and I let my lips trail to

his nipples. Colin gasped when I licked them. He tightened his hands on my shoulders.

“Evan.”

I moved lower and nuzzled the fine, silky line of dark hair beneath his stomach. I

followed it. Colin’s dick nudged my chin. I had to know. I needed to know how it would feel.

What it would do to him. How it would taste. I ran my tongue across the gleaming tip, along

the groove. He tasted of salt and something I couldn’t define. It was enough to get my own

dick bobbing.

Colin moaned when I closed my lips around him. It was all new territory for me. I

could only go on what I’d experienced in the past. I curled my hand around his shaft and

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sucked. I must’ve done something right, because Colin’s fingers tightened convulsively on

my shoulders. He lifted his hips from the bed and, for a moment, I nearly choked when he

thrust into my mouth. God knows how he tolerated my novice fumblings. I recovered my

breath and found a rhythm—suck, squeeze, lick. I just wanted to make him happy.

“Evan.” His voice was a hoarse whisper. “You don’t have to do this.”

I lifted my head. “I know. I want to.”

“Jesus.”

I closed my lips around him once more, resumed the dance. He quickened and I

quickened until he shuddered and came. I closed my eyes and swallowed, overwhelmed. My

own dick ached like hell.

“Come here,” he whispered. He curled his hands around my face. “Kiss me.”

I wiped my mouth and kissed him. He coiled his tongue around mine. He twisted his

hands through my hair. I moved my hips against his. Every inch of me demanded his

attention. I couldn’t get close enough.

“My turn.” He trailed his lips down from my throat, every kiss a drop of rain on

parched soil. When he took me in his mouth, I thought I would explode. Instead, I tried to

make it last, even as waves of heat spread out from his touch. I found the warm, dark cavern

of his mouth, felt the back of his throat. He nearly drove me mad with his tongue, swirling,

dabbing, sucking. In a fevered dream, I watched him bob his head up and down, watched

how the lamplight turned his skin to gold. If I’d been drunk, it would’ve made more sense,

but I wasn’t. I was stone-cold sober. I wasn’t going to wake up on a camp bed in a tent in a

dusty corner of a foreign field.

It was all very real when I came. I couldn’t help myself. My back arched off the bed,

every nerve sang. Colin kept on until I was spent, until I collapsed back on to the whispering

silk of the duvet, struggling for breath.

I held him close and he rested against me, his arm across my waist. I couldn’t

remember the last time I’d felt such contentment, such release. I stroked his hair and lost

myself in his nearness, in the scent of him.

Colin fiddled with the duvet, pulled it up so it covered us both, enveloped us in a

cocoon of warmth. “We should sleep.” He edged closer, his head on my pillow, his breath

warm on my cheek.

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“Yes.” I fell asleep with my hand on his face. Sorting out how I felt would have to

wait.

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Chapter Four

The room smelt of sex.

Morning light slipped through a gap in the curtains and fell across the tumbled sheets.

For the briefest of moments, I wondered if it had all been an insane dream. I watched Colin

sleep, his face inches from my own, his hand curled beneath my chin. A fierce, sudden rush

of longing for him left me weak. I traced the curve of his eyebrow with a light finger, slipped

beneath his thick, dark lashes to trace his cheekbone. My skin rasped on his morning stubble.

I wanted to kiss him awake, see those eyes. I needed to know that this was right, that we

were right.

Colin stirred, mumbling something. His hand unfurled and drifted to my chest.

“Hello.” His voice was a purr.

“Hi.” I covered his hand with my own, held it in place. I couldn’t think of anything

else to say.

He edged closer and kissed me—a sleepy, early morning kiss. “I never imagined I’d

ever wake up like this.”

“Neither did I. Not in a million bloody years.” I brushed the hair from his forehead.

He rolled over, picked up the watch on the bedside table and sighed. “I should’ve set

the alarm. Bugger.”

“You’re

late?”

“No, not if I get up now. It wasn’t what I had in mind.” Another kiss, sad and

regretful. “There’s always later.”

“Yes.” Two more nights. I didn’t want to think beyond that.

He climbed out of bed. “Unless you want to shower with me.” Colin’s grin was bright

with mischief.

“It’s always a good idea to conserve water.” I took his outstretched hand and followed

him into the bathroom.

* * * *

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I was back at the flat by three. The professor had given me more than enough

information to work with. I sat at the small table in the bay window, poured myself a glass of

wine and set about making sense of my notes. Sunlight filtered through the trees outside,

casting latticed shadows across the floor. The windows were open to catch the breeze and the

hum of traffic on the street below. I envied Colin his peaceful place, the chestnut trees and

the bright, cluttered space. The peace made it easy for me to unravel Professor Emerson’s

tortuous recitations and type them into the laptop in something resembling order. A different

file for each tribe, another for history, yet another for good advice, something Emerson had

offered by the bucket-load. God knows I was going to need it. His parting words as he had

walked with me down to the courtyard offered little comfort.

“Keep your wits about you and your eyes peeled, Mr Harrison. Don’t trust anyone.”

Well,

shit.

I closed the final file, leant back in the chair and sipped the cold, dry wine. It tasted of

green apples and summer. When my phone rang, I didn’t welcome the intrusion. I picked it

up, looked at the screen and turned the phone off. I wasn’t ready for Katy. I still had to get it

all straight in my own head. Colin, Katy, Pakistan. It was hard to take in.

I poured another glass of wine and glanced at the clock above the cooker. Outside, a

car door slammed and footsteps crunched across the gravel. I sat down and waited for

Colin’s footfall on the stairs.

He’d already wrenched his tie loose by the time he walked through the door. He

dropped his bag on the floor and walked, in silence, across the room. He left me breathless,

wordless, unable to stand. Without speaking, he straddled my lap, put his hands on my face

and kissed me. Anyone would’ve thought we’d been separated for months instead of a few

hours. His kiss burned me to the core, to the bone. I clung to him, shaking, needing him. He

groaned deep in his throat and wound his hands through my hair. Eventually, we broke

apart, trembling, breathing hard.

“Jesus, Evan.” Colin rested his forehead against mine. “What have you done to me?”

“You’re a fine one to talk.” I watched the rise and fall of his chest, felt my erection

push against my jeans. I unfastened his shirt buttons, slowly, one after the other and slid my

hand beneath the cotton, feeling his heart beat furiously beneath my open palm.

He slid from my lap and drew me to my feet. He glided his hand across the bulge

inside my jeans and he sighed while I looked at him, helpless. “I can’t get enough of you.”

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“No. Same here.” I swallowed and closed my eyes when he pulled the zip down and

reached for me. I was almost there, almost ready to explode at his touch. I wasn’t sure I’d

make it as far as the bedroom. My jeans tumbled to my ankles. I stepped out of them, kicking

them away while I grappled with his flies. Two could play at that game.

Colin’s shirt dropped to the floor with a whisper, his jeans followed. I pulled him

close, wanting nothing but the feel of his skin against mine. I wanted to breathe his breath,

lose myself, hide in him. His erection pressed against my stomach. We stumbled towards the

bedroom and fell, locked together, onto the bed.

My job is all about words but there are times when I just can’t find them, when I just

can’t put them together in the right way. Then there are times when the words are there, but

there are just too many and when I write them they don’t make sense, or it’s just a corny,

clichéd mess. That afternoon eludes me, leaves me stumbling and groping. I can’t define, I

can’t explain, not without it reading like gratuitous sex, like rabid, rampant pornography.

I just know that I wanted Colin.

* * * *

We clung to each other, exhausted and sated. The grandfather clock in the hall struck

six. I was relieved because I knew that there was still time, there was no rush, no need to

think beyond that moment. Colin’s head was heavy on my shoulder, his hand meandered

across my chest, tracing abstract patterns in that absent way that a lover’s hand will do.

Contentment settled over me like a warm blanket. Outside, the breeze rapped twigs against

the window. The last, greying light of day slipped through the gap in the curtains. I stroked

Colin’s hair, breathed in the scent of it.

“I take it,” he said, “you’ll kick Katy into touch now?”

“Oh, I should think so. But let’s not talk about that. That’s something I’ll take care of.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.” I finally had the reason I needed to cut her loose.

Colin brushed my nipple with his lips and desire stirred again.

I reached for him, wanting him. I would never be able to explain the relentless need to

anyone. I would just have to do the best that I could with the words that I had.

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* * * *

Colin had no lectures on Friday and I had finished my research on Thursday. We

woke to rain—a hard, driving, cold rain hurled against the window by an icy wind. Colin,

collecting the milk from the front doorstep, declared that it was going to snow.

“We’re not going anywhere.” He looked in the fridge and the freezer. “There’s plenty

of food and alcohol.”

“Good.” That suited me just fine. I’d already decided there was no point in returning

to London until Sunday. I turned my phone off. There was nothing that couldn’t wait until

Monday. I didn’t want to leave. This was like being in a long, pleasant dream. Going back to

London meant telling people. Part of me thought if I told anyone it would all disappear, like

telling someone what you wished for when you broke the wishbone meant it wouldn’t come

true.

He handed me a coffee and sat down beside me on the settee. Even fresh out of bed,

rumpled and half-asleep, he stirred unwholesome thoughts. I crossed my legs and drank my

coffee, watching the rain.

“Does that mean you’ll stay?”

“Yes.” I kissed him. He tasted of coffee. “Until Sunday.”

“Thank Christ for that.”

Colin turned on the stereo, dropped half a dozen or so CDs into the player, and music

filled the flat—a wild ripple of piano and strings. It was sweet and sad and I closed my eyes

when Colin rested his head on my shoulder. I put my arm around him and we sat like that,

just listening to the music and watching the rain. I wasn’t ready for the outside world,

because I was still lost in the novelty and still trying to make sense of how easily I’d fallen

into this.

“Nice music,” I said after a while.

“It’s some Italian guy, Ludovico something or other.” Colin tightened his arm around

my waist. He nestled closer, as if he was trying to curl into me. “Evan?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think you could ever love me?”

The sadness in his voice tugged at me.

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I stroked his hair and stared out of the window, at the rain. “I… I don’t… I…can’t… I

need to get this all right in my head. Do I think I could ever love you?” I brushed my lips

across his forehead. “I’d say there’s every possibility. But will you be patient?”

“For as long as it takes.” He shifted against me. “As long as you want to be with me,

as long as you want me.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever stop wanting you.” I covered his mouth with my own, wound

my fingers into his hair and let the music take us where it would. The rain had turned to

snow. Huge, wet flakes slid down the windows. The world beyond was veiled in swirling,

restless white. The radiator clanked and the soft crackle of the fire filled the silence between

records.

“Your hair is red where the firelight touches it,” Colin murmured. “I’ve always loved

your hair.”

I thought back to the day we met, when he’d turned up to rent the other room in the

student flat. He’d stood in the cold, dank hall with his duffle bag and his backpack, scruffy

and grinning. “Always?”

“Yup. You’d just got out of the shower. You had a towel around your waist.”

“You’ve felt this way all this time?” I looked at him, stunned.

“Christ, yes. You really have no idea how hot you are half-naked, do you? That dark

red hair, those freckles on your shoulders…” He sighed. “I spent ten years trying to console

myself with anyone who reminded me of you in some way. It didn’t work.”

“And here was I, Mr Oblivious.”

“You weren’t to know.” Colin’s hand was gentle on my face. “I didn’t want you to

know.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Pakistan. I know you think I’m worrying too much, but I couldn’t let you go without

knowing, regardless of the consequences. I had to risk losing you to let you know.”

Pakistan.

I wished he’d never mentioned it. Bloody real life kept creeping into our idyll. It

nagged at me like a bad taste in my mouth. I pushed it aside. “I’m glad you did. I’m glad you

took that risk.”

“So am I.” His lips were soft on my eyelids.

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I rested against him. His heart beat a slow and steady rhythm beneath my cheek.

Outside, the snow quickened against the windows, washing the room with cold, white light.

“I just hope you’re not disappointed after all this time. I’m only human, you know.”

“Oh, I know. Flaws and all. I couldn’t care less. You want me, that’s all that really

matters.”

“Yes, I do.”

* * * *

By Sunday, the roads were clear. I turned on my phone and counted five messages. It

was time to return to London. I hated packing. Colin sat on the edge of the bed and watched

me. I couldn’t bear to look at him, knowing that I’d see my own sorrow mirrored in his eyes.

I had some serious music to face on my own. I wanted to get it over and done with so we

could get on with our lives.

“Will you come up next weekend?” he asked.

I zipped the bag closed. “Friday afternoon, if that’s all right.”

“Yes, please.”

“I’ll phone you when I get home.” I picked up the bag. I hated this.

He walked with me to the front door and stood shivering on the front porch. The

morning air was brilliant, clear and cold. I felt like I was being torn in two. It was a wrench

leaving the warm cocoon of the flat. I dropped the bag on the snowy gravel and pulled Colin

into my arms. We held each other in silence for a moment.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I know.” I sought his lips one last time. God, he felt so fucking good. I didn’t want to

let go, I didn’t want to breathe independently of him. “But I have to go.”

“Yeah.” Colin’s voice was heavy with regret.

I walked away, threw my bag into the back of the car and looked back. It’s only five

days.

STOLEN SUMMER

S.A. Meade

Chapter Five

I phoned Ellen almost as soon as I returned to London and arranged to meet her on

Monday for lunch.

“So, what’s the big emergency?” When I walked into the restaurant, Ellen stood up

and kissed me.

“It’s not really an emergency. There’s just something I need to get off my chest. You’d

better sit down and get yourself a drink.” I sank into the booth and waved for the waiter. I

ordered a glass of red wine and Ellen asked for a vodka martini. I waited for the drinks and

pretended to look at the menu. I didn’t feel much like eating.

“So what’s the dark, dreadful secret? Did you finally lose your temper with Katy?”

“No, not yet, but this affects her in a way she won’t like at all.”

The waiter returned with drinks. Ellen ordered lunch. I decided on a salad.

“Oooh! This sounds interesting.” My sister’s eyes gleamed. “Anything that pisses Katy

off is a very good thing.”

I took a sip of my wine, then another. “It’s certainly interesting. It’s probably going to

piss Mum and Dad off, too.”

“God, what have you done now?”

“I’ve… I’m with someone…kind of.”

“Well, that’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

“It is as far as I’m concerned.”

“Please stop buggering me about. What’s the big deal?”

“It’s

Colin.”

“What’s

Colin?”

“That’s who I’m with. He loves me. I think we might be a couple.” There, it was out.

I’d said it. The ceiling didn’t cave in, no one screamed, no one fainted. The world kept

turning.

“Colin,” Ellen repeated. “Best friend Colin, the good-looking one with the brown eyes

and the perpetual stubble? That Colin?”

“Yes,

that

Colin.”

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S.A. Meade

“You’re with…with Colin. He loves you. You’re a couple.”

“Yes. Well…in a way.”

“Could you be a bit less coy?” Ellen snapped a breadstick in half. “Are you with Colin

or aren’t you? I mean, do you love each other?”

I looked at my wine. “I’m not sure. It’s all been a bit…well…sudden. He told me he’s

in love with me. That he’s felt that way for a long time. When he told me, I wasn’t freaked

out. It made sense and it felt right, like it should always have been Colin.”

She took a huge gulp of her martini, pausing only to remove the olive, which she set,

with great care, on her side plate. “Bloody hell. You don’t do things by halves do you?”

“I suppose not.”

“I never had you pegged as gay.”

“I never did either but I suppose I am.”

“Does being with Colin make you happy?”

I thought of the days we’d spent together. “Very.”

She leant back and took another drink. “Well, then, that’s what matters. If he makes

you happy, then go with it.”

“I’ve never been happier, sis. I’m just worried about how Mum and Dad are going to

take it.”

“Evan, you’re thirty-two, you don’t need their approval anymore.”

“I know that, but I’d like them to be all right with it.”

“That’s why you told me first. To test the water?”

“Kind of. But your blessing is equally important.”

“Well, you have mine.” She smiled and reached across the table to squeeze my hand.

“I know how unhappy you were with Katy. You deserve some happiness. I like Colin. Mum

and Dad like Colin. They’ll be shocked, no doubt. But I think, when they get over it, they’ll be

all right. You’re their son.”

The food arrived. I felt better and speared a tomato with my fork. “I’m going to see

them tomorrow.”

“You don’t hang about.”

“I know it could come to nothing but I just want to get it all out in the open.”

“Have you told Katy yet?”

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S.A. Meade

“No. I wanted to tell the people that matter first. She can wait until I’ve told Mum and

Dad.”

“How do you think she’ll take it?”

“Badly. Not because I’m breaking up with her. I think she’s been waiting for an out.

The fact that I’m leaving her for a man will piss her off. Too bloody bad.”

Ellen grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

“I just wish it was over and done with. I’m dreading tomorrow more than anything.”

* * * *

I decided it was best to wait until after dinner to break the news to my parents. We

settled down in the living room with coffee and listened to the rain and the radio. I leant

forward and stared into my coffee cup. No matter how many times I arranged and

rearranged the words in my head, there seemed no way to break the news gently. Oblique

wouldn’t work in this instance.

I dived right in.

The silence seemed to last forever. Mum’s face was a study in bewilderment. Dad

looked like I’d hit him with a cricket bat.

“Colin,” Mum repeated.

“Yes. He loves me. He makes me happy. I make him happy. I want to see where this

goes.”

“Jesus Christ.” Dad’s voice was hoarse. He stood up and walked out of the room.

Mum looked at me, her face pale, then looked at the closed door.

“I have to go to him, Evan.”

I nodded. “Go.” I covered my face with my hands and listened to her leave, to her

rapid footsteps on the stairs, to the creak of floorboards. I heard tones, not words—the low

rumble of Dad’s voice, Mum’s voice, lighter, pleading. My guts churned and I hid in the

darkness behind my hands. They kept talking, Dad’s rumble, Mum’s pleading. Dad was

pacing, his measured tread a counterpoint to whatever Mum was saying. I didn’t even want

to imagine what Dad was saying. I was certain I wouldn’t like it.

I don’t know how long I sat there, hunched over my knees, palms pressed into my

face. The door creaked open and Mum’s slippers whispered across the carpet. I couldn’t

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S.A. Meade

move, even when Mum sat on the arm of the chair and put her arm around me. She pulled

me close and held me in silence, stroking my hair the way she had when I was a child.

“I love you, darling,” she whispered. “I just want you to be happy.”

I let my hands drop, forced myself to look at her. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her

cheeks damp and shining. “I am happy, Mum. I’ve never been happier.” The hairball in my

throat had been replaced by tightness. I wiped my eyes.

“It’s a shock for us, love. You’ve got to understand.”

“I know. I wish there was some way I could’ve made it easier for you. But I’m not

ashamed, I’m not embarrassed. I want to be with Colin. That’s all.”

She exhaled slowly. “If you’re happy, then I’m all right with it. Colin’s a lovely lad.

Just give your Dad some time. I’ll talk him round. You know how he is.”

I knew now.

“I just don’t want you to get hurt. People can be cruel.”

“I

know.”

She kissed my forehead. “My stubborn, surprising little boy, be patient with your dad.

Please.”

“I will.” I wished I could go home to Colin. I wished he was there. I wanted to crawl

into his arms and stay there. Only three more days.

Mum returned to the settee and picked up her port. “So, how did this all happen?”

I took a deep breath and started talking.

* * * *

“So, let me get this straight. You’re jacking me in for a man. You’re a fucking bum

bandit.”

I thrust my hands into my coat pockets to keep myself from hitting Katy. I’d known it

wasn’t going to go down well. “I’m dumping you because I can’t be arsed, you can’t be

arsed. Come on, Katy, we’ve been drifting for ages. I know you’ve been sleeping around. I

don’t blame you. It’ not like I’ve been around much. I’d rather you didn’t resort to insults.”

In spite of hating her for the insult, I still felt a bit sad that three years had ended like this.

“Who is it, Evan? Who’s your bum boy?”

I leaned against the wall, sick and tired of it all. “Why do you want to know?”

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“I’d like to know what kind of men you fancy. You certainly had me fooled.”

I wasn’t about to explain to her that I’d had me fooled, too. She didn’t deserve that

kind of explanation. “Since you were kind enough to ask, I’ll tell you. It’s Colin.”

“Colin.” A moment of silence.

I waited for the penny to drop.

“Your Colin? Oxford Colin?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Her hands coiled into tight little fists. Blotches of scarlet

mottled her cheeks. “How could you?”

“Let’s just leave it there, shall we? You don’t need to know the details. I’m sure you

can figure out how it all works.”

“My God. Were the two of you…?”

“Carrying on while we were sleeping together? No. Don’t worry, you haven’t got

AIDS. Well, not from me, anyway.”

“Bastard. Fucking, bum-fucking, faggot bastard.”

“All right, I think I’m done here.” I should’ve felt relief that the last, hardest hurdle

was overcome. Instead, I just wanted to crawl into bed and hide under the covers. I knew if it

had been the other way around, I would’ve been angry. I was just fed up of the drama.

“You are. Get the fuck out of here.” Katy’s voice finally rose. “Get the fuck out of my

sight.”

I ducked just in time. The wine glass whizzed past me and slammed into the wall. Red

wine splattered outwards. It looked like a crime scene.

I walked out of the door. I knew Katy was capable of causing some trouble in a small,

mean sort of way. I didn’t mind. I could live with it. The worst was over and I just wanted to

get back to Colin.

* * * *

Everything was pink. Pink wrapping paper covered my monitor, my keyboard, my

trays, my phone, the chair. The walls of my cubicle were papered with it. Pink, helium-filled

balloons floated above my chair, tethered by pink ribbons. More ribbons festooned my

monitor, were draped across my desk, and were wrapped around a fairy wand that was

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taped to the back of my chair. The office fell silent. I didn’t say a word while I de-pinked

everything. I just threw everything into the bin. I knew I had an audience, and there were

two or three in that audience who had probably taken great pleasure in the redecorating job.

Katy hadn’t wasted any time in getting the word out.

With the last ribbon removed, the balloons popped, I sat down at my desk and started

work. It was pretty much what you’d expect from a room full of journalists. There’s always a

handful of wags who think it’s fun to take the piss. It didn’t matter.

Fuckwits.

The usual noise returned. The soft whirr of hard drives, ringing phones, a low-level

hum of chatter, like white noise. A palpable air of disappointment hung over the newsroom.

No display of temper from me. I wasn’t about to give those few arseholes what they wanted.

I’m sure Katy was waiting for them to report back that I’d thrown a major wobbly, broken

the wand over my knee and garrotted the prime suspects with the ribbons. I kept the wand. I

taped it to the side of my monitor and wondered whose backside I should stick it up.

Mary, the head secretary, crept into my cubicle and placed a mug of coffee on my

desk. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her eyes sad. “You know how it is here. I’m really sorry

there’s a few pricks who can’t leave well enough alone.”

I smiled. “It’s all right. I expected as much. I guess Katy couldn’t keep her mouth

shut.”

“No.” She patted my shoulder. “It’s all right, Evan. Apart from those idiots, I don’t

think you’ll get any grief.”

“Glad to hear it.”

The phone buzzed. Clearly, the news had reached my boss’s office. Jon’s number

flashed across the screen.

“Hello.”

“Have you got a minute?” His tone was brusque.

“Yes.”

“Good. My office. Now.”

I put down the phone and picked up my coffee. I couldn’t imagine that I was going to

get my arse chewed for my sexual preference. Nonetheless, I didn’t much enjoy that brief

walk to John’s office.

He glanced up as I stood in the doorway. “Shut the door.”

STOLEN SUMMER

S.A. Meade

I did. I sank down in the chair and waited while he finished scribbling something.

When he’d finished, he removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

“What the hell was all that pink crap?”

“My

cubicle?”

“Yes, your cubicle. Is it true you’ve got a boyfriend?”

I would have been well within my rights to tell him to sod off and mind his own

business. But he was my boss. He indulged my penchant for dangerous and stupid

assignments because he knew my work was good. “Yes.”

“I gather some of your colleagues aren’t too impressed.”

“So it would seem.”

“It would be easy enough for me to find out who did it. I’d be happy to kick their

sorry arses for you.”

“It’s all right. They’ve had their fun.”

“You know it probably won’t stop there.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ll deal with it.”

“I thought you’d say that.” He sighed and rubbed his eyes once more. “Just promise

me you won’t hit anyone.”

Tempting.

“No, don’t worry. I won’t.”

“Fuckwits. Stupid, fucking juvenile fuckwits. I’m sorry, Evan.”

“Don’t be.” I knew it was only a few. I had a fairly good idea who. I’d wait, see what

happened and take it from there. Compared to the other dramas of the past week, a pink

cubicle was small beer.

“For what it’s worth, I’m happy for you. It’s hard to find someone when you’re in a

job like ours.”

“Thanks.” I knew he meant it. Compliments from him were rare as hens’ teeth.

“Right. Off you go.”

“Thanks.”

“Hold your temper, mate.”

“I will, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried about you. I’m worried about the other poor buggers.” He grinned.

I laughed and headed back to my de-pinked cubicle.

STOLEN SUMMER

S.A. Meade

Chapter Six

It took everything I had not to run up the stairs. I didn’t want to turn up all breathless

and ready for a heart attack. I took my time, savouring the anticipation. It had been a long

fucking week and I just wanted peace and quiet. I’d had enough bloody drama.

The door was open, I heard music.

“Hi.” Colin was waiting in the hall, wearing nothing but his dressing gown.

“Hi.” The week’s weariness and aggravation fell away.

He took my bag from me and set it on the floor. “Come here,” he whispered.

I was glad enough to comply. Colin smelt of soap and aftershave, as if he’d just come

from the shower. His heart pounded against my chest. I’m sure mine pounded right back. I

hid my face in his hair and held on to him.

“I missed you.” His voice was a low purr.

“I missed you too.” I shivered when his hand drifted down my spine.

“Come with me.”

“Yes.”

The bedroom curtains were drawn against the grey, misty gloom of the afternoon. The

room was illuminated by dozens of candles. They flickered along the mantelpiece, reflected

off the ancient, spotted mirror above the dressing table, across the top of the wardrobe, on

the bedside tables. It must’ve taken ages to light them all.

“Bloody

hell.”

“Hush.” Colin put his finger on my lips and, with his other hand, slowly addressed

my shirt buttons. My shirt fluttered to the floor and my jeans followed, pooling around my

ankles.

I reached for the belt of his robe and it fell away. I slid my hands beneath the warm

fabric and closed my eyes, inhaling the scent of him, feeling the heat of his skin against mine.

All he had to do was kiss me and I was lost. I forgot about everything but him. I curled my

fingers through his hair while he backed me towards the bed. We tumbled, together, onto the

mattress, onto the yielding silk duvet.

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“I love you.” Colin trailed his lips along my jaw, down my neck, across my shoulders.

“I love your freckles.”

I laughed. “It’s all about the freckles, isn’t it?”

“And so much more.” He moved lower, coiling his tongue around my nipples,

languid, slow strokes that left me trembling. I reached for him, pulled him back so I could

kiss him. I just wanted to kiss him, feel his weight on me. I moved my hips against his, felt

him grow, felt him push. He groaned softly and glided his tongue over mine. His breaths

were already ragged. So were mine. Five days of longing were about to be resolved. I was

weak with it, desperate. I wrapped my legs around him, wanting him so close that nothing,

not even air, could come between us.

“God, Evan.” He pushed back. I felt the liquid warmth of pre-cum on my skin. I knew

I wouldn’t be far behind. It really wasn’t going to take much.

Colin slid his arm beneath me. His hand was in my hair, pulling at it, his mouth

devouring mine. He was all fire and the candlelight flickered on his skin. I looked into his

eyes and smiled, knowing that I’d come home.

We moved our hips together in a feverish tango. Our kisses grew more frantic. We

both thrust at the same time, both letting go, both lost. I cried out, shuddered and clung to

him. He fell onto me, his breath ragged in my ear.

“Bloody hell.” It was hard to breathe again after those furious few moments. I stroked

Colin’s hair, pushed it away from his face and kissed one eyebrow. I loved the shape of his

brows, like the outspread wings of a dark bird.

“Bloody hell, indeed.” He slid off and rested on his side, facing me. The candlelight

couldn’t mask the flush on his cheeks. “That was some homecoming, boyo.” He rested his

hand on my chest. I covered it with my own, wound my fingers through his. I never tired of

looking at him, at his almond eyes, as dark as coffee.

“It’s been a bad week.”

“Don’t worry, I have everything in hand.” He crept closer and rested his chin on my

shoulder, his face inches from my own. “Do you know, when my mum phoned yesterday,

she had the nerve to ask which one of us was the woman in this relationship?”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. God only knows what goes on in people’s

heads when they hear news like ours. “That would be you, wouldn’t it?”

He smiled. “What on earth makes you say that?”

STOLEN SUMMER

S.A. Meade

“The candles. Only a woman would light dozens of candles. Besides, your hair’s

longer than mine.”

“That’s bloody typical of you.” He brushed my lips with his. “As it happens, there’s

more. Wait here.”

I felt a chill as he left the bed and crept out of the room. The tell-tale squeak of the taps

in the bathroom followed by the rush of water gave me a clue. I remained where I was and

stared up at the ceiling, a restless mural of candlelight and shadows. Colin hummed from

somewhere else in the flat. The fridge door opened and closed. He poked his head around

the door.

“All right, you. Bathroom. Now.”

There were more candles in the bathroom, their light diffused by drifting clouds of

steam. Two bottles of beer rested on the rim of the tub. The scent of sandalwood rose from an

incense burner. To top it all, a ghetto-blaster sat on top of the sink. That rippling piano music

that I loved filled the room.

Colin turned off the taps. “Go on, get in.”

After the drive north on the crowded M40, the idea of relaxing in a hot bath had a lot

of appeal. I climbed in and Colin climbed in behind and placed his legs on either side of me,

holding me in place.

“First things first.” He reached down and passed me a beer.

I took a long drink, parched from the drive. Colin moved his hands across my

shoulders, ploughing his fingers through my muscles.

“You’re bloody tense.”

“You think?” I set my beer down and leant forward while he worked my shoulders,

easing away the tightness with the palms of his hands. I felt thoroughly spoilt.

“I’ll make you better.” He paused for a moment to kiss the back of my neck.

I shivered. “You already have.”

We sat without speaking, listening to the music, while he continued the massage.

Everything toxic inside me melted away.

“How’s that?”

“Much, much better.”

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S.A. Meade

“Good.” He trailed his lips across my shoulders, following where his hands had been.

He reached his arms around me and I rested against him, boneless and grateful. “We’ll get

through this, Evan,” he whispered. He grazed my neck with his lips.

“Yes.” It didn’t really matter at that moment. I twisted in his arms and water rose and

lapped around us. “We will.” I kissed him.

After a while, I forgot just about everything.

* * * *

We let the candles burn low in the bedroom. One by one, they spluttered out. Colin

turned on the lamp and rested against me. The clock in the hall struck eleven. I don’t think

either of us wanted to sleep.

“Evan?” Colin turned to face me.

“Yes?” I traced the line of his jaw. His stubble rasped beneath my fingertips.

“Will you fuck me?”

I paused and stared at him, at the brilliance of his eyes in the flickering light.

“Pardon?”

His hand drifted across my chest and meandered down towards my dick. “I want you

inside me.”

I closed my eyes when Colin kissed his way across my torso. “Inside you?”

Jesus.

I looked at him, at his face, his dark eyes full of something I couldn’t define.

He paused, resting his chin on my chest. “Yes, please. It’s not all blow jobs and mutual

wanks, you know. Remember that film?”

“I’m not likely to forget it.”

Colin rolled onto me and pushed my hands back into the pillows. His hips shifted

slightly against mine. “I really want this, Evan.” He caught my bottom lip between his teeth.

I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.”Won’t it hurt you?”

“No.” His cock was hard against mine.

My heart hammered in the whispering silence of the bedroom. I pushed the tumble of

hair from his forehead. “If you’re sure.” I said goodbye to another piece of the old

heterosexual Evan.

“I’m sure.” He kissed me and rolled away, reaching into the bedside cabinet.

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I watched him as he sat up and tore open a condom packet. Without speaking, he

unrolled the condom over my dick with agonising slowness and smoothed it down.

It was hard to breathe as Colin opened a bottle and applied the lube with equal care

before reaching down beneath his balls to lube himself. It was impossible to ignore my racing

pulse when he turned over onto his hands and knees. I moved behind him, hoping my own

knees would hold me up. I leaned over him and kissed his shoulder, buying time. Light and

shadow played across his skin and he quivered when I ran my hand along the smooth sweep

of his spine.

This wasn’t just sex any more. This was a leap in the dark.

My hand trembled on his skin. Colin looked beautiful and vulnerable. Wanting him

became a fierce ache.

“Please…Evan.” Colin pushed back.

I took a deep breath when I clutched him and rubbed my dick between his buttocks.

“What do I do?” It seemed impossible that I could find my way inside him, that I could do it

right. I didn’t want Colin’s desire crushed by my inept fumblings.

“Just take your time.” His voice shook.

I nudged forward and inched in before pausing. For a moment I almost forgot to

breathe when I found the heat and tightness of him.

Colin groaned. “Yes, just like that. Oh…Christ, yes.”

I eased in a little bit further and waited for my head to stop spinning. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” His shoulders rose and fell when he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

“More.”

Another push earned another groan from Colin. His head dropped and he pushed

back, driving me all the way in. My fingers fought for purchase on his skin. Candlelight

wavered and spluttered.

Jesus.

I eased back and glided in. My legs trembled. “Oh…”

“Don’t…don’t stop.” Colin’s voice was already ragged. “Faster…please.”

I ran my hand along his back and wrapped my arm around him, seeking his warmth,

seeking the heat of his skin beneath mine. I quickened, snatching a rhythm from somewhere.

Colin’s fevered little gasps were a ragged counterpoint to my thrusts. I was lost, drawn

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deeper into his fire. The room became the gentle creak of the bed, the sputtering of candles

and Colin, his hands clutching the tangled bedclothes.

Every nerve sang, seeking absolution from the past, from three years with the wrong

person. I kissed Colin’s back and reached around for his dick. His long, unsteady sigh told

me I’d done the right thing. I wrapped my fingers around it.

“Evan…oh.”

Pre-cum trickled over my fingers. I smelt its musk, beneath it the milky sweetness of

Colin’s skin. I covered his back with kisses, mad with the scent of him.

“Bloody hell.” He whimpered and shuddered when I worked my hand up and down

his cock and thrust into him at the same time. I finally let go of myself. I gave in and fire

raced through me. There was darkness for a moment when I spilt into him. Colin cried out

when he came, his cum spilling between my fingers, as hot as my own. He collapsed onto the

cushions and I collapsed on top of him, still inside, unwilling to leave his warmth, and held

him.

We rolled over together. I withdrew slowly and removed the condom.

“I’ll be back.” I kissed the back of his neck and hurried to the bathroom. I disposed of

the condom and returned to him with a damp flannel. I wiped the drying semen from his

chest and kissed him, before tossing the flannel aside.

“Jesus Christ, Evan.” Colin huddled against me beneath the duvet.

“Jesus Christ, indeed.” I gathered him up, still struggling to breathe.

“Are you all right?” His head was heavy on my shoulder.

“Never better, I don’t know what the hell you’ve done to me.” The last of my doubts

fled. The world could go to hell in a hand-basket, my colleagues could drape my cubicle with

pink ribbons. I didn’t care. This was right.

“Seduced you away from the straight and narrow.”

“That sounds about right.” I followed the arch of his eyebrows with my forefinger.

“You’re a terrible influence on me.”

“It takes two.” He stole my hand, held it to his lips. “You didn’t put up much of a

fight.”

“You seduced me out of all common sense. I couldn’t resist” I took his face in my

hands. “I still can’t resist.”

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Colin parted his lips beneath mine. He was the end of my long drought, my

homecoming. He was all I wanted, all I would ever want.

* * * *

The pub was busy. It usually was during a London derby. Arsenal were playing

Chelsea and people were clustered around those tables closest to the huge flat-screen

television. We found a table out of the way. It had been a bit of a wrench to leave the flat, but

we needed food and the pub was on the way back from the shop.

We sat side by side. There wasn’t much room to sit any other way—not that either of

us minded. I couldn’t bear the thought of being more than an inch or two away from him.

“Do you actually give a damn who wins?” Colin leaned close, his breath warm on my

cheek.

“Nope.”

“I know, you’d rather be watching the ice-dancing.”

“Yea, and drinking cocktails with little paper umbrellas in them.”

He chuckled into his beer. His leg brushed mine. I bit my lip and wished we were

back at home.

“Malibu and pineapple, eh?”

It was my turn to laugh. Not long after he’d moved into our student digs, he and I had

spent a memorable evening getting arseholed on Malibu and pineapple juice. We’d both then

spent an equally memorable Saturday morning throwing up and nursing monumental

hangovers.

“Aww, isn’t this sweet.” Katy’s voice was like an adder’s bite. She slid into the empty

chair across the table. “It warms my heart to see you both so happy.”

“Thanks.” Colin smiled at her. He curled his hand around my knee.

“You do make a lovely couple.”

“I think we do, too.” I recognised that gleam in Colin’s eyes.

“I think you’re being very brave. This isn’t a gay pub, you know.”

“Thanks for pointing that out. We only stopped by for a quick pint. You know how

tiring it is when people shag each other senseless. You need a break sometimes.” Colin edged

closer, rubbed his hand up and down my thigh. “Evan is wearing me out.”

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“That makes a change.” Katy’s eyes were cold. Her lips pressed together in a hard,

thin line.

“Ah, well. It depends on the partner doesn’t it? You must know how that is. Everyone

is different. I’m sure you’ve had plenty of opportunities to make comparisons.”

Katy turned to me, just about ready to spit feathers. “Are you letting your boyfriend

do all the talking, Evan?”

“I haven’t really much to add. I’m a bit shagged out, to be honest. I haven’t felt this

worn out for a long time.”

“Bitch,” she spat.

Colin wound his fingers through mine. “Is that all you have to say, Katy? Is that the

best you can come up with? God knows you’ve had a week or two to come up with

something better.”

Her face turned that ugly, beetroot red. Her mouth worked soundlessly. I wondered

how I’d stuck with her as long as I had.

Her chair scraped back, nearly tipping over. “Well,” she spat. “I would wish you well,

but I’d rather not.”

“That’s all right. I think I can live without your blessing.”

“I hope you both get AIDS.”

“Ah, sorry to disappoint you, Katy dearest.” I grinned at her. “We just had the all-

clear on our blood tests. It’s not going to happen.”

“Bastards.” She turned and strode away. Colin sniggered when the strap of her

handbag caught on the edge of another chair and it toppled to the floor behind her.

“How the hell did you put up with that for all that time?” Colin asked.

“It’s kind of like cigarettes. You know they’re probably bad for you but you can’t give

them up.”

“She’s certainly toxic.”

Katy span around to give us one final, venomous glance before she swept out of the

pub. Bad timing on her part. She wasn’t too pleased to see Colin sliding his arm around my

shoulders. The door slammed shut, barely disturbing the people watching the football.

We sat and finished our beers in peace.

“Can we go home now?” Colin asked. “I think it’s bad to lie to someone, even if you

hate them.”

STOLEN SUMMER

S.A. Meade

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“I told Katy you were shagging me senseless. I think you need to do that. I’d hate to

think I’d lied to the woman.”

STOLEN SUMMER

S.A. Meade

Chapter Seven

I arranged an interview with a mullah. Not just any mullah, mind. Tariq al Masood

was a thorn in the side of the Home Office—a Pakistani cleric who was all for replacing

conventional democracy with sharia law. He was rumoured to have ties with the Taliban and

Pakistan-based insurgent groups who supplied men and arms to the cause in Afghanistan.

Some of the less subtle tabloids had been baying for his blood for years and more than a few

politicians had made rumbling noises about deportation.

I met al Masood at his house, an innocuous, red-brick terrace in a maze of rain-washed

streets of identical terraces. In spite of the soft spring drizzle, the narrow street was alive with

children, screeching and running in between parked cars. The girls were brilliant splashes of

colour in their shalwars. Anxious mothers, aunts and grandmothers peered through lace

curtains and lingered on doorsteps while they watched their charges. Arabic music blared

from an open window and the aroma of something spicy drifted in the light breeze.

Masood met me at the door. I stared at him for a moment, trying to reconcile the short,

plump, bespectacled man with his reputation. With his white beard and flushed cheeks, he

looked more like someone’s grandfather than a risk to national security. I knew enough

Arabic to greet him properly. He did not return the customary greeting, because according to

his interpretation of sharia law, a kafir like me wasn’t entitled to that.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Harrison.” He ushered me into his front room.

“Would you like some tea?”

“Thank you, yes.” I sat on the floor, on one of the many rugs spread across the room.

The only nod towards western pretensions was the gas fire, which was lit to ward off the

damp chill.

Al Masood called down the hall and sat, cross-legged, facing me. I fished through my

bag and pulled out my notebook and recorder.

“You speak Arabic. That is good.”

“I speak a little.”

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S.A. Meade

A light rap on the door heralded the arrival of a woman, swathed in a burka and veil.

Her eyes were concealed by a cotton mesh screen. She set a tea tray down on the floor

between us and disappeared like a black ghost, with a whisper of heavy fabric.

I was careful to take the glass of tea with my right hand. The steam was fragrant with

mint.

Masood held the plate of sweetmeats towards me. “Please, you must try these. My

wife made them herself. I know I shouldn’t boast, but Aziz has no equal when it comes to

these. She knows they’re my weakness.” He smiled.

“They’re mine too.” I picked up a coconut-covered cube. “Especially burfi.”

“You like Pakistani food?” Masood was positively beaming.

I bit into the burfi and nodded. “Oh, yes.”

“Had I known, I would’ve fed you more.” His voice held a note of regret. “Aziz loves

to cook for guests.”

“You’re very kind. It isn’t often I get the chance to get good, homemade Pakistani

food. But these are fine. Thank you.”

Al Masood took a sip of his tea. “So, you have questions.”

I opened my notebook and decided to start off with the easy ones. “I understand that

you are advocating the introduction of sharia law in Britain.”

He set his glass on the tray and folded his hands. “It is very important to the British

Muslim community that we have sharia law. As Muslims, we find it difficult, if not offensive,

to live in a democratic society.”

“Why?”

“A democracy is created by people. Sharia law is based on the word of Mohammed.

We are Godly people and are uncomfortable living in a society not based on the Koran and

the Prophet Mohammed.”

It was strange to hear words like that delivered in a broad Birmingham accent.

“Democratic government was created to protect the rights of individuals, to allow them the

freedom to worship as they choose. The fact that you live in a democracy allows you to speak

freely about your beliefs. What’s wrong with that?”

“It is an offence to Islam for Muslims to live under such a set of laws.” He sighed and

offered me a sad smile.

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S.A. Meade

“There are some who would suggest that if you don’t like it here, you could leave and

live in a country governed by sharia law.”

Al Masood nodded. “They are bigots who don’t understand. I have spent most of my

life here, my children were born and raised here. If I choose to stay, that is my right.”

“I’ve heard people suggest that the reason you stay here is because it’s easier to raise

funds and recruit men for the jihad?” I braced myself for his anger. He had denied it up and

down in other interviews. I didn’t expect it to be any different this time.

He plucked another sweetmeat from the tray. “The reason I stay here is because I am

fighting for sharia law in this country. One day I’ll succeed and Muslims will live under their

own law.” He popped the treat into his mouth and chewed before answering.. “One day,

sharia law will replace English law and we will all live under sharia law. Those who see this

as a bad thing fail to recognise that if we all lived according to one law, there would be no

need for strife and hatred.” Al Masood shook his head like an old man sad at the state of the

world.

“What would that mean for an infidel like me?”

He reeled off a list of things, from having to keep to the side of the street, to not

displaying wine, pork or crosses. I could be punished for adultery and theft. I couldn’t hang

Christmas lights on my house or hold a public funeral. I dutifully scribbled these down and

tried not to think about the grim fact that, as homosexuals, Colin and I could be executed if al

Masood had his way.

I did my best to keep up with him while he bemoaned the evils of democracy, the lack

of morals, the lack of religion. It wasn’t anything I hadn’t heard before.

“What about the allegations that you provide funds and fighters for the Taliban?”

“My brothers in Afghanistan are fighting a just war. They are fighting a corrupt

government and foreign soldiers who kill to prop up that regime.”

“Those foreign soldiers are defending this country. You could argue that they are

defending your right to worship freely in this country.”

“They are waging a war against Islam. They are killing and maiming innocent

people.”

I thought of Beaumont, with his mangled leg, and I thought of Roberts, with half his

face blown off. “What about the families of the soldiers? Don’t they deserve some

sympathy?”

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“They would not lose husbands, fathers and sons if they left the Taliban alone.”

“So you have no remorse.”

“I always regret death.”

“What about Al Qaeda? Is it true you support them?”

“Al Qaeda no longer exists.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“It no longer exists as it was. The organisation was dismantled, though it still has

many, many supporters.” Al Masood poured more tea into the glasses. “Many supporters

who are passionate about the cause, who would do anything to further the cause.”

I glanced at my notebook. There were a few questions left but I wasn’t sure I could be

arsed to ask them. There was one I had to ask, though.

“What of Pakistan? Do you see it going the same way as Afghanistan? Will there be

insurgents there who will try to overthrow the government?”

“I can see it. There are many angry people who are tired of living under an American

puppet regime. We have close ties with our brothers in Afghanistan, with our brothers in

arms. I would be very pleased to see my homeland under a more just government.”

“I’m sure you would. You approve of innocent civilians being killed by car bombs

then?”

Al Masood shook his head. “As I said before, any death is regrettable. I comfort myself

with the knowledge that if they are Muslims they are martyrs and they will find their reward

in paradise.” He passed me the tea.

I closed my notebook. “I think I have all that I need.”

“I know that what I’ve said displeases you. For that I am sorry.”

“You have your beliefs, I have mine. We don’t have to agree.” I sipped the tea, seeking

calm. It was hard to reconcile the hospitable host with his words. “It isn’t my place to judge.”

He smiled. “I agreed to this interview because I have read your work. You have seen

much, and yet, you write without judgement. That is rare these days. I congratulate you.”

“Thank you.”

“Perhaps you will visit again and Aziz will cook a fine meal for us. We can talk of

things other than war.” His smile was full of regret. “Perhaps when you return from

Pakistan.”

Pakistan.

STOLEN SUMMER

S.A. Meade

I gathered my things together. “Perhaps.” I rose and shook his outstretched hand.

“You must be careful while you are there, Mr Harrison. Not everyone can be trusted. I

will certainly tell my connections to leave you in peace.”

“Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”

His grasp was warm and strong. “It was a pleasure talking with you, Mr Harrison. I

appreciate your patience with an old man’s ramblings.”

“You’re welcome.” I left the warm house and ventured into the drizzle. Oxford and

Colin were only an hour and a half away. I wanted to be there.

I made my way onto the motorway and headed south. Luckily, the M40 was quiet

because it was too early for rush hour. The speed limit meant nothing because I wanted to

put as much distance as I could between me and that reminder of Pakistan as quickly as

possible. Even the normal chaos of the Oxford ring road was preferable. The rain slowed the

traffic to a crawl in places but it didn’t matter. I was nearly home.

My hands trembled on the steering wheel as I turned the car onto the broad sweep of

gravel in front of the house. Colin’s car was already there. Beads of rainwater dappled the

metallic blue paint and the engine still ticked as it cooled. He hadn’t been home long. I

grabbed my bag from the back seat.

“You’re early,” Colin called from an open window. “I left it open.”

I just wanted him. The burning, desperate need was enough to propel me up the

stairs.

Colin was waiting in the hall in his usual jeans and shirt. The tie was already gone,

slung carelessly over a coat hook. He had never looked so beautiful. I had never felt so

damned weak with desire.

“Jesus, Evan. You look like you’ve faced the devil himself.”

I dropped my bag on the floor. “Close enough.” I hung up my jacket.

“The cleric?”

“Kind

of.”

“Come here,” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“It’s all right now.” Colin moved his hands through my hair.

“It is.” I backed him against the wall and kissed him. I was already hard, already

desperate. He pushed his hips against mine. I pushed mine back. I buried my fingers in his

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S.A. Meade

hair. He coiled his tongue around mine. We both struggled for breath. I couldn’t get close

enough. I wanted the heat of his skin on mine and grappled with his shirt buttons. His heart

pounded furiously beneath my open hand. His hand brushed my crotch. The soft whisper of

the zip almost sent me over the edge. Colin cupped my balls and devoured my mouth with

his.

He groaned. “Will we make it to the bedroom?”

“I hope so.” I reached for his flies. “I want you to fuck me, Colin.”

He broke away from the kiss. He cupped my face. “Are you sure?”

“I need this. I need you.”My hands shook. I didn’t care if it hurt or not. I just wanted

him inside me. I wanted him as close as possible.

He kissed me once more, a slow-burning kiss like a sleeping fire. “It won’t hurt. I

promise.”

I could scarcely walk as I followed him into the bedroom. He turned on the lamp and

drew the curtains. The room was flushed with amber light. We tore at each other’s clothes in

a fever and Colin pulled me down onto the bed, into the cool, yielding silk. We explored each

other, hands and lips. I tasted his skin, inhaled the scent of him while he rose and fell beneath

me. Our breathing fell into sync. His pulse was a desperate counterpoint to mine.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” I nibbled at his bottom lip. “Oh, God, yes.”

Colin laughed softly, his breath warm on my skin. “All right, then.”

His hand followed the curve of my arse, fingers slid between my cheeks, edging

down. His forefinger drifted across my hole and I shivered at the lightness of his touch. I

nipped at his shoulder. “Please.”

Colin slid from beneath me and opened the drawer in the bedside table. He reached

for the lube, poured some into his cupped palm and rubbed his hands together. “I’ll take it

slowly, I promise. Just roll over.”

I did and he straddled my thighs. He leaned over me and left a trail of kisses across

my shoulders. “I love those freckles,” he whispered. “Especially this one.” His lips lingered

on my shoulder. His dick was hard against my arse. I remembered the bed and breakfast and

smiled.

“I’m going to put the lube on now.”

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The lube was cool against my skin, beneath my balls. His fingers swept across my

opening once more, spreading the lube. I gasped when he slid a finger into me.

“Just relax.” He kissed the back of my neck, licked my earlobe and sucked. His breath

was light on my skin, another caress.

I let myself grow heavy, sinking into the mattress. He edged my legs apart with one

knee. He worked his finger slowly into me, twisting, exploring. I felt my muscles yield, give

way, when another finger joined the first. Instinct made me push back, push my arse towards

his touch.

Another kiss, warm on the small of my back. Colin kept probing, edging farther and

pausing, waiting while I adjusted to him. “One more,” he whispered. Another finger,

working its way in, a careful slow circle. My dick grew harder beneath me.

“I think you’re ready.” He drew away. I heard the rip of foil and the soft rustle of the

condom as he eased it over his cock.

I quivered when he parted my cheeks and slid his dick between them. I felt its heat

through the thin coating of lube and condom. He eased my hips towards him. I went with

him, on my knees, my arse in the air while I wrapped my arms around a pillow. Colin slid

cushions beneath me, propping me up, leaving me exposed. The silk of the cushions was cool

against my own erection.

“God, you’re beautiful.” Colin swept his hand up my back while his other hand

caressed my cheeks, squeezing, fingers sliding between them, gliding up and down, slippery

with fresh lube. He slid them into my hole again and, this time, my body was ready, muscles

yielding to his probing.

“I have waited so bloody long for this.” Colin’s voice shook.

I clutched the pillow when his cock nudged at my opening. He pulled his fingers

away and grasped my hips while he rubbed the head across my skin, across my balls. His

breathing quickened as he rocked back and forth.

“Just relax.”

I bit my lip and felt him nudge forward, between my cheeks, edging in. His breath

hitched before he pushed in and waited. My eyes watered, my flesh burned and stung.

Another deep breath and I willed myself to relax, knowing that it would be worth it.

“Are you all right?” His voice was ragged, his hand trembled against my skin.

STOLEN SUMMER

S.A. Meade

The pain receded. All I could feel was him, the thickness of him. My muscles yielded.

“I’m fine.”

“Good.” He nudged a bit further. God, I loved his patience. I learnt to accept the

pressure, the pain. It didn’t last long. Another push. Colin groaned. His fingers bit into my

flesh and I pushed my arse back towards him, wanting more.

“Go for it.” I braced myself, took a deep breath. “I’m ready. I want you, Colin.”

His thrust was smooth, slow, steady. I couldn’t believe how he filled me. My eyes

watered, but he was all the way in, his balls resting against my cheeks.

“God, Evan.”

He eased back until only the tip of his cock remained inside me. My muscles wrapped

around it, welcomed it. He drove back in with an emphatic push that left me breathless.

Nerves I hadn’t known existed begged for his presence. “Again,” I gasped.

“Are you sure?”

“God, yes.” I rocked back towards him, forcing him in. He plunged in again, with that

long, steady stroke. His balls slapped against my skin.

“Again?”

“Faster, please.”

He leaned over me, kissed my back, his tongue burning a trail along my spine. “Ask

and you shall receive.” He fell into an ever-quickening rhythm. For some reason, I thought of

Ravel’s Bolero, then forgot about music as the relentless pounding of his cock took me

somewhere else. His balls beat their own tattoo. Colin whimpered, a soft, lovely sound. He

reached around me with one hand, found my dick, curled his fingers around it. He thickened

inside me, grew. He worked his hand in time with his thrusts, squeezing, tugging. I could

feel reality sliding away, the old reality. This new reality was much better. Colin moved

faster, lost in his own place. He pulled back, paused, and roared when he thrust forward. His

hips jerked, his hand tightened around my dick, moved frantically, squeezing the cum from

it. We both cried out at the same time as hot fluid splattered my chest, splattered the silk

cushions. I felt the burn of his semen through the thin film of the condom. I don’t know who

trembled more. I collapsed onto the heap of cushions and wanted him inside me forever.

“Are you all right?” Colin’s voice was still unsteady.

“Yes.”

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S.A. Meade

He withdrew slowly. The bed shifted and his feet whispered on the floorboards. I felt

lost in the chill of his absence and rolled off the cushions. The bed was warm beneath the

duvet and I curled up under it and waited for Colin to return.

He returned and wiped my chest with a flannel. Then he climbed into bed and held

me in the lamp-lit silence, stroking my hair. I threaded my legs through his and listened to

his breathing while it slowed.

“Thank you.” He brushed my lips with his.

I turned to face him. “I should be thanking you. I have never needed you so much as I

did when I left that place.”

Colin rested his forehead against mine. “Are you feeling better now?”

I closed my eyes. “Oh, yes.”

“You’re a pretty crap journalist, aren’t you?” He brushed my lips with his thumb.

“Are you that desperate for a shag every time an interview bothers you?”

“No. Just this time.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.” I edged closer, wanting to feel every inch of him against me. “I wish I

hadn’t bloody arranged it now.”

“You can’t back out?” Colin’s hand drifted to my waist.

“No, not now. I need to do this and get it over with. I have to do this.” I did. It was my

job and sometimes it sucked but it still had to be done. “It’s what I’m good at.” I kissed his

throat, loving the feel of his skin beneath my lips, the tiny pulse that flickered there. “I love

that rush when I step off the plane at the start of it all. The smell of a place, that third world

funk. Everything feels different. I love that feeling. I love waking up in the morning,

throwing open the curtains and looking at a strange place, somewhere that’s begging to be

explored. I just can’t resist searching for the secrets.”

“Why do you have to pick such dangerous bloody places?” He curled his fingers

around my cock.

“Because that’s where the stories are.” I struggled to find the words. Colin was

stealing my ability to think straight.

“You’re mad, Harrison.”

I reached for him. “Yes, I probably am.”

STOLEN SUMMER

S.A. Meade

Chapter Eight

“Hello, Evan, it’s Mum. I wanted to phone and ask if you and Colin want to come to

dinner, before you go off to Pakistan. Give me a call when you can. Bye.”

Colin, fresh out of the shower, wandered into the living room wearing nothing but a

towel. “Did I just hear that right?” He rubbed his hair dry with another towel.

“You

did.”

“Shall we go?” He sat on the arm of the chair. He smelt of soap and aftershave.

“I suppose we should. I’d better phone her and see what this is all about.” It was too

much to hope that my dad had finally come round. I picked up the phone and punched in

their number.

Mum answered the phone.

“Hi,

Mum.”

“Did you get my message?”

“I did. That’s why I was calling. I wasn’t expecting to be invited to dinner. It’s been a

while.”

“Your father suggested it. I think he’s finally used to…everything. Anyway, we want

to see you before you go away.”

“All right, we’ll be there. When?”

“Tomorrow night? About six?”

“We’ll be there. Do you really think it’ll be all right?”

“Yes, darling, it will be all right. You know your father, it just takes him a little while

sometimes.”

“Okay. I just don’t feel up to any arguments, that’s all.”

“There won’t be. I promise. We’ll see you tomorrow.” I put the phone down.

“Well?”

“I guess Dad has come round. Dinner was his idea. They want to see me before I go

away.”

Colin kissed my hair. “Let’s worry about that tomorrow. Right now, I’m knackered. I

need to sleep.”

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I looked at him, lean, pale, endlessly desirable. Bed seemed like a good idea. “Let me

have a shower. I’ll meet you there.”

* * * *

I woke up in the middle of the night. A hard rain battered the window. Colin was

stretched out beside me, on his stomach. His head rested on his arms. I fought the urge to run

my hand along the smooth sweep of the skin of his back and wake him. Instead, I rolled onto

my back and stared up at the ceiling. Apart from the occasional clunk from the radiator, all I

could hear was the rain and Colin’s steady breathing. It was like a lullaby, but my thoughts

were elsewhere.

“Are you all right?” Colin’s voice was gentle. The mattress whispered when he turned

to face me. His hand drifted to my face.

“I was just thinking about tomorrow night.” I glanced at the clock. “Tonight.”

“It’ll be fine.” He edged closer and laid his head on my chest. “The worst that can

happen is that your Dad calls us a couple of poofs and we leave without eating. We can just

get a takeaway.”

I laughed, in spite of my nerves. “Since you put it that way.”

He looked at me. His eyes were huge and dark in the street-lit dimness of my

bedroom. “We’ll be all right. We have each other. We’ll always have that.” He sighed. “I’m

sorry if I fucked up things between you and your dad, I really am.”

“You didn’t fuck anything up. You made everything better.” I reached for him,

cupping his face in my hands. “You’re right. We have each other. That’s enough. That’s more

than enough for me.”

“That’s better.” He shifted, rolling onto me. “Now I’m going to make you forget.” He

grazed my lips with his.

My body was already forgetting. It wouldn’t take long for my mind to follow.

* * * *

We stood on the doorstep, our shoulders touching, and waited. A cold, soft drizzle

turned the evening to dove-grey silence.

“How are you doing?” Colin asked.

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S.A. Meade

“I want to vomit. Thirty-two years old and here I am trembling on my parents’

doorstep. Slap me, please.”

He laughed. The rain had turned his hair to a wild mare’s nest. “It’s all right.”

Mum answered the door. There were tears in her eyes when she hugged me, and even

more so when she hugged Colin.

“It’s lovely to see you both.” She let him go and looked up at him. “I’m glad you could

come.”

“It’s nice to be here.” He handed her a bouquet of roses, all charm and smiles.

Mum cooed over the flowers and ushered us into the living room. Dad was waiting,

standing nervously with his hands in his pockets. I searched his face for clues.

“Dad.”

“Son.” He moved forward and swept me up into a fierce hug. “Son.”

I bit my lip and hugged him back, inhaling the familiar scent of his aftershave. I

couldn’t speak.

“It’s good to see you.” He stepped back, his eyes warm.

“It’s good to see you, too.” My voice caught in my throat.

He turned to Colin. Mum hovered in the background, still clutching the flowers.

“It’s nice to see you again, Colin.” He held out his hand.

“Thank you, Mr Harrison.” Colin took it, grinning.

Dad covered Colin’s hand with his own. “I owe you both an apology. I’ve been bloody

stupid.”

“No, Dad, it’s all right, really. It was a shock.”

“You can say that again.” He let go of Colin’s hand. “But life’s too short. You’re my

son. All I want is for you to be happy. That’s what matters more than anything.”

I swallowed at the hard lump in my throat. My eyes stung. My dad’s eyes were a little

too bright. Colin’s shoulder touched mine. His hand crept to the small of my back.

“I am happy, Dad. I’ve never been happier. I want to be with Colin.” It was hard to get

the words out. “Please understand that.”

His smile wobbled a bit. “I do.” He squeezed my shoulder. “Don’t worry, I do.” He

looked at us both, then grinned, a sudden, brilliant grin. “Excellent. Now that’s all settled,

time for a drink.”

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After dinner, Colin insisted on helping Mum clear the table. I was left in the living

room with Dad.

“Are you sure you’re happy, Evan?” The bonhomie of earlier had disappeared.

“Yes. I really am. I wish I could explain it better. It’s just right to be with him. I

wouldn’t want it any other way. Are you sure you’re all right with all this? You’re not just

saying it to make Mum happy, are you?”

He looked down at his hands. “I’ll admit, it’s taken me a long time to get used to the

idea. You know, different generation and all that. But, yes, I’m all right with it. It’s not as if

Colin’s a stranger to us. He’s a good man. He clearly loves you.”

“Yes.” I wondered if Colin was getting a reassuring talk from Mum in the kitchen.

“I’m very lucky.”

Pakistan was going to be hell.

* * * *

Friday evening—the coffee table scattered with the empty takeaway cartons, empty

wine glasses and dirty plates. We rested beside each other on the settee, a sleepy tangle of

limbs and dishevelled clothes.

Colin leaned over me and retrieved the remote. “Might as well watch the news.”

A newsreader, sitting at a desk with the BBC graphics behind him, was working

through the evening headlines. A report on global warming, a parliamentary scandal and

then…

“A car bomb exploded in an Islamabad marketplace earlier today, killing twenty-three

and injuring dozens more…”

The footage showed a tangle of splintered wood, torn canvas, shattered glass and

blood-splattered soil. Bodies draped with stained cloths littered the scene, while soldiers

picked through the wreckage. It was a scene repeated many times—same carnage, different

city. The car was a twisted, charred pile of metal. Tendrils of smoke coiled from the blasted

engine. Ground zero was a rough, blackened circle of debris. The newsreader said that a

Pakistani-based Taliban group had claimed responsibility for the bombing.

Colin was still. His mouth pressed into a thin, hard line.

“I don’t want you to go.” His voice was quiet, clipped.

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“I have to.”

“So you keep saying.” A muscle twitched in his cheek. “I wish you’d just say no.”

“We could talk about this until the sodding cows come home but it won’t make a

difference. It’s my sodding job.” I took a deep breath. “I wish you could just live with that.

Didn’t I promise that this was my last trip? I meant it. I’m giving up a lot to be with you. Isn’t

that enough?”

“Right now? No it isn’t.” He retrieved his jeans from the floor.

“Jesus wept. Don’t you think you’re overreacting just a bit?”

Colin grabbed his shirt and wrenched it over his head. “Didn’t you watch the news

just now? Didn’t you see what I saw? What is the point of going there? It’s not as if the whole

fucking world doesn’t know what’s going on. Why the fuck do we need another exclusive

fucking report from the front line?”

“This is getting us nowhere.”

“It certainly isn’t.” He hurried into his shoes.

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know. Just leave me the fuck alone, will you?” He was out of the door before I

could say another word.

Fucking marvellous.

I stared at my hands for a few minutes. The newsreader was working his way through

a story about a congressional hearing in the States. I turned the bloody thing off and reached

for my clothes.

I stared at the blank screen. With Katy it had been all sulks and silences and it had

always been up to me to try to figure out what I’d done wrong. Clearly, this time, it was all

my fault.

I decided I needed coffee and Colin needed to cool down while I picked over the

bones of the argument. My hands shook in the wake of his sudden departure. The flat was

silent apart from the vague whisper of rain against the windows. I found my shoes and

looked at them for a while.

What the hell do I do now?

Sitting and staring at my shoes wasn’t going to settle anything. I slipped into them,

grabbed my coat and headed out into the rain. The empty pavement was marked with pools

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of amber light beneath the streetlamps. A cool breeze rattled through the trees and spat rain

in my face. I hurried towards the pub and tried to find the words to put our world right

again.

It was quiz night at the local. I edged through the crowd and searched the tables. They

all seemed to be occupied by groups of people huddled together discussing answers to the

questions posted by the landlord. The regulars all leaned against the bar, clutching their pints

and wishing the quiz was over. I squeezed past them into the quieter back room, where

others sought refuge from the noise in the main bar. Apart from a couple snogging at a table

in the corner, no one was there.

I supposed there was some comfort in knowing Colin wasn’t going to drink his anger

away. Back out in the street, I stood on the corner and wondered where the hell to go next. I

turned right and walked. At least it was better than stewing alone in the flat and wondering

when Colin would return. The walk gave me plenty of time to realise I’d been a bit of a prat. I

kept walking. The rain slowed to a misty drizzle more drenching than the earlier downpour.

I saw no one and had to admit defeat.

Back at the flat, a damp trail of footprints on the stair carpet told me Colin was home. I

crept up the stairs and stuffed my shaking hands into my pockets before I opened the door.

Colin emerged from the bathroom, rubbing his hair with a towel. His damp clothes

rested in a pile beside the clothes hamper. He tossed the towel onto the hamper.

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance you’ve changed your mind?” His voice was sad,

resigned.

I ached to brush the hair from his face. “No.” It hurt to look at him, to see the sorrow

in his eyes.

He sighed and retrieved his dressing gown from the hook on the bathroom door

before brushing past me. The clink of bottles told me he was getting himself a beer. He sank

on to the settee and stared mutely at the curtains.

I sat beside him and took a deep breath. “I meant what I said about it being my last

trip. I just wish I could say something to make things better. I can’t apologise because I don’t

think I’ve done anything wrong. I am sorry for being such a prick about it.”

Another sigh. Colin’s eyes remained fixed on the curtains. I watched the thoughts

move across his face and waited. I didn’t know how else to make him understand. It was

down to him, now.

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For Christ’s sake, say something, please.

“It’s hard for me not to worry about you.” Colin glanced at his hands. “I’m scared.

Every time I see something like that, my imagination goes into overdrive. I’m afraid you’ll be

hurt or killed.” He turned to face me. “Every bloody time you’ve gone away, I’ve worried

myself sick about you. I used to dread watching the news just in case… You know…” His

voice trailed away. “I suppose it’s my fault for falling in love with an adrenaline junkie.”

“So you still love me?” I did what I’d wanted to do—I moved a tendril of hair away

from his face and kept my hand there, feeling the warmth of his skin.

Colin’s lips brushed my palm. He closed his eyes. “I wouldn’t be this scared if I didn’t

love you.”

“I know.” I swallowed at the knot in my throat. “If it’s any comfort, I’m scared too.”

“It’s no comfort.”

“I won’t be stupid. It’s not like I’m a novice. I do know what I’m doing. Trust me.” I

leant forward and brushed his lips with mine.

“Damn you, Harrison. Why the hell do I let you get round me like this?” He curled his

hand around the back of my neck.

“Because

can.”

So, we kissed. We sat there for a long time, sharing the silence, keeping warm,

exchanging kisses. We wandered back and forth through our memories, of the years shared,

of getting drunk, sharing our woes, sharing that scummy student flat. I realised Colin had

been the one constant in my life, apart from my family.

The clock in the hall struck once. A couple of empty beer bottles stood testament to the

passing of time. Colin smothered a yawn and rested against me.

“Do me a favour.”

“Anything.” The way his hand drifted across my chest destroyed any resistance I

would have had to the most outlandish of requests.

“Would you move in with me?”

No more flogging up and down the motorway every Friday afternoon. Waking up

every morning with Colin curled up beside me. “Yes.”

His fingers stilled. He looked up at me. “You would?”

“I will. I’d much rather work from here than in a cubicle. It wouldn’t be a problem.

I’m sure my boss wouldn’t mind.”

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“Really?”

“Really.” I took his face in my hands and there wasn’t much talking after that.

* * * *

I made it there before Colin got home. I hauled the boxes up the stairs myself and

stowed them in his library. He’d left space for me and made room on the absurdly large desk

for my laptop. I put his photograph there. I left most of the boxes unpacked and hung my

clothes next to his in the Victorian wardrobe in the bedroom. It was strange to see my things

hanging next to his. I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at them for a while, trying to

absorb the reality of the moment. It had really happened. For the first time since I’d left

university, I was actually living with someone else—the very same person I’d lived with at

university. Talk about synchronicity.

“Evan?”

I heard the door open as I climbed out of the shower.

“I’m here.” I grabbed a towel and wandered out into the hall, shivering in the chill of

the flat.

“Well, there’s a sight to come home to.” Colin grinned and raised an eyebrow. “Will

you do that every day?”

“If you like.”

He undid his tie and shoved it into his jacket pocket. “I like.” He hung up the jacket

and pulled me close. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

“Neither can I.” The towel slipped to the floor. I toyed with the buttons on Colin’s

shirt.

“And now you’re stark bollock naked. Could this day get any better?”

I kissed him. “That depends what you had in mind.”

His erection pushed at his jeans, pushed at me. “I’m sure I can think of something.”

He backed me towards the bedroom.

I reached for his belt, wrenching it free.

Colin groaned when I slid my hand into his jeans, seeking the heat of him. He was

already hard. My dick twitched when his jeans slid to the floor. We fell onto the bed in a

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feverish tangle of limbs and his clothes. I pushed at his shirt and he tossed it impatiently

aside. His lips demanded my attention. No problem there. I rose to meet him, pulling his face

down to mine. His breath was hot against my skin.

“God, Evan. You leave me lost for words.” Colin wound his hands through my hair.

“It works both ways.” I gasped when his hips shifted against mine. I wanted him

inside me.

He rolled off me and reached for the lube. The scent of it rose between us, made me

want him even more. It was cool on my skin, cool on his fingers when he slid them into me. I

bit my lip when he pushed my legs back and edged between them. “I’ll never stop wanting

you.” Colin slid his hand from my face, down my chest. He followed with his lips, lingering

on my shoulders, counting freckles. The frantic pace slowed to something like a slow tango.

He slid into me, gently, easily. It scared me, sometimes, how well we fitted together, how

every nerve of mine begged for his touch.

“Jesus.” Colin’s voice shook. His eyes found mine. I loved how the wonderment never

left them when we made love.

I was already beyond words, reduced to nothing more than desperate need. Waves of

fire spread outwards when he filled me. He drew back, suspended somewhere else, then

plunged in once more, growling, thrusting deep.

I cried out, reaching for him. His hair tumbled over his forehead, into his eyes. He

grew inside me, all heat and movement. Something in my blood sang when he quickened.

He threw his head back and cried out. One final push sent me over the edge, Colin spilt into

me and I spilt all over myself.

He withdrew gently and collapsed onto me, gasping short, quick breaths—soft, hot

breezes on my skin. I held him, still trembling through the aftershocks.

This was my life, now. I considered myself lucky beyond words.

* * * *

I had an idea for a piece to work on post-Pakistan. An article in another paper about

soldiers returning battered and broken from Afghanistan had got me thinking about Captain

Beaumont. I wondered how he was and thought about doing a follow-up piece on him. I

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imagined he was married to his Grace, so I tracked her down. It was fairly simple because the

racing press were excited about a prospect from her father’s yard.

“This is Grace.” A cool voice with a trace of country-girl burr, not the clipped vowels

of the very posh that I’d always associated with the racing community.

“Hi, I’m looking for Christopher Beaumont.” I introduced myself, named the paper

and explained the connection and why I was calling. When I’d finished, there was a dark

silence. Only the fact that her phone number remained on the screen told me she was still

there.

She sighed. “He can’t come to the phone. I don’t think he would talk to you anyway.”

Another sigh. “He doesn’t like to talk about what happened, not even with me.”

“I’m sorry.” I was—there was weariness and sorrow in that cool voice. More than she

probably intended to reveal to a stranger. “Can I leave my number, just in case?”

“Yes. I’ll tell him you phoned but don’t expect an answer.”

“Well, perhaps you and I could talk in a few weeks’ time. I’m away on assignment in a

few days, but I’d like to speak to you when I get back.”

“I don’t know.” She paused. She lit a cigarette. I heard the click of the lighter, heard

her inhale. “I don’t know you. I don’t want anything in the paper. This is a private thing.”

“I understand. I wouldn’t write anything you didn’t want me to. I don’t operate any

other way. It’s just that I got to know the captain when I was in Afghanistan. I liked him and

I suppose I’m just hoping he’s recovering.”

“That’s very kind of you.” More silence. I heard the long, flubbering sigh of a horse in

the background. “I’ll think about it. Phone me when you get back. Perhaps I’ll feel like

talking then.”

“Thanks. I will.” I put the phone down and stared out of the window at the April rain.

Sometimes it sucked to be a journalist.

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Chapter Nine

Colin drove me to the airport. There was no point in talking. All our goodbyes were

said and done. He had woken me before dawn with a long, languid kiss. We’d made love,

slowly, every movement echoing goodbye and sorrow.

It’s only three weeks, it isn’t forever. When it’s over and done, I need never leave him again.

Colin found a space in the short-term car park and walked with me to the terminal. He

held my hand, fingers wound tightly through mine. No one had seen me off on one of my

trips before. I was used to making my own way—the seasoned traveller, armed with my

passport and a good book. Saying goodbye in the chaos of the terminal was something new

to me. I’d already checked in online and I hadn’t any bags to check in. I travelled light

because I hated the post-flight lottery of baggage claims, standing jet-lagged and vacant

waiting for a familiar bag to crawl past on the squeaking belt of a poorly-lit airport.

Colin walked with me to the security barrier. I dropped my backpack to the floor and

took him in my arms. I kissed him, wanting to keep him there, wanting to lose myself in him.

A tightness in my throat prevented me from uttering more than a soft groan when he kissed

me back.

“I’ll miss you,” I whispered against his lips

“Damn you. I’ll miss you too.” Colin’s voice was tight, small.

I swallowed. “I promise I’ll keep in touch. I don’t know how dodgy the internet will

be, but I’ll keep in touch somehow.”

“You’d bloody better.” He took a step back. His eyes were too bright.

“I will.” Any connection between us was better than nothing—even if it was just

words on a flickering screen. “I’d better go.”

“Yes.” He lifted his head and tried to smile. “Bugger off.”

“Right then, I will.” I shouldered my bag, touched his face and kissed him one last

time before walking away. I passed numbly through security and headed towards the

departure gate, where I sought refuge in the familiar routine of departure, glad no one knew

me as I found a seat in a far corner of the lounge and sat staring blankly at the cluttered

apron of airport outside.

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* * * *

I had two seats to myself in business class. I made myself comfortable, fished my book

and netbook from my backpack and turned on my phone as soon as the flight attendants

gave the all-clear. There was already a message waiting.

“I just want you to know, I love you. Watch your arse and come back to me.”

I glanced at my watch. He’d be halfway back to Oxford by now. He always left the

phone off while he drove, saying that he found it hard enough to drive without the

distraction of talking on a phone. I hit his number and waited for the answering service to

kick in.

“I will come back to you. I promise.” I put the phone down, opened my netbook and

tormented myself by scrolling through photographs. In spite of everything, I fell asleep,

comforted by the fact that three weeks would pass in no time and there was every chance

we’d have a lifetime of mornings like that.

* * * *

Holding my name up on a placard would’ve been a bit of a red flag. Instead, the

agency providing the bodyguards had sent me photographs of both and told me where I

should meet them at the airport in Islamabad. Given that just about everyone else in the

arrivals area was dressed in shalwars, I probably wasn’t hard to spot, especially with my

colouring, which screamed ‘infidel westerner’.

“Mr Harrison?” A tall man stepped forward. Thick, black hair and watchful eyes. His

shalwar kameez failed to hide the tell-tale bulge of the gun at his hip.

“Yes.”

He grinned and held out his hand. “Welcome to Pakistan. I am Jahangir Adnan.”

I shook his hand, still drowsy from sleep and from jet-lag. He matched his

photograph, as did the other man who stood silently behind him, surveying the area with a

comforting diligence.

“I am Farooq Khan.”

I tried not to stare at the puckered scar on his neck.

“We will go to your hotel now.”

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A hotel sounded good. My only regret was that there would be no bedtime beer,

unless I wanted a non-alcoholic substitute. I wasn’t that kind of drinker. I resigned myself to

drinking bottled water and the syrupy, locally bottled coke. I followed them out of the

terminal into the steamy, breath-sapping heat of Islamabad in May. Even at four in the

morning, the heat had substance. I hoped we wouldn’t have to wait around too long before

we headed into the mountains. I also hoped the hotel had a functioning air conditioner. I felt

grubby enough as it was from the long flight. The sub-tropical humidity and miasma in the

air just made me feel filthier. I watched my new companions carefully, relieved they were

vigilant. When they reached the car, they hurried me in and drove away quickly.

I offered a silent prayer of thanks to Mary, who had managed to book me into a Best

Western. Yes, chain hotels are short on culture and local colour, but in places like Islamabad,

they’re a welcome refuge. Better yet, she’d booked me into an executive suite, which meant I

had access to the internet. My companions were in the room next door, another comfort. I

flung my backpack onto the bed and prowled the room, as I always did. It was the usual

standard, western-type furniture that you’d find in London, New York, Paris, Amman,

anywhere. There was comfort in the uniformity and bland decorations.

I undressed and had a shower. The water was warm and I closed my eyes, letting it

wash the grubbiness of the long journey away. I hated the idea I was washing the last traces

of Colin from my skin. After my shower I flicked through the information booklet, saw that

the hotel provided alcohol for non-Muslim guests and ordered a room service bottle of beer.

When it arrived it went down a treat, just the sedative I needed. I brushed my teeth and

crawled into bed, wrapping my arms around the empty, lifeless pillow. I fell asleep to the

sound of birdsong in the hotel grounds and to the memories I’d left behind.

* * * *

“We can fly to Gilgit today,” Jahangir announced. “The weather should hold.”

I sipped my coffee. “Good.”

“I’ll book the tickets.”

“Thank

you.”

“You should know there’s been trouble there. There have been riots. The Shiites and

Sunni don’t like each other.”

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It had been that way for years. Some things never changed. Fucking religion.

“Hopefully, we won’t be there for long.”

“I’ll book the hotel. The government one is the best.”

“As long as it’s clean, I don’t mind.” I picked at my toast. “Thank you for sorting

everything out.”

After the late breakfast, I returned to my room and checked my emails once more. The

flight left in the early afternoon and, I suspected, there’d be no more internet once I’d left

Islamabad. That never really used to bother me. It bloody did now.

There was nothing. I looked at my watch. It was only six in the morning in England.

Colin would still be in bed. For a moment, I was there with him, watching him sleep,

watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, hearing his breathing. I closed my eyes and saw

his tousled hair on my pillow, the dark crescents of his eyelashes. If I was there, I’d kiss him

awake.

God, missing him hurt.

* * * *

“We should be able to fly. It’s still clear.” Jahangir handed me my ticket. The flight to

Gilgit hinged entirely on the weather. It was an old plane, which lacked the instrumentation

required to navigate through the mountains unless the weather was clear.

“That’s something.” I hoped it would be cooler and quieter in Gilgit. The airport was a

madhouse.

I shoved my netbook into my backpack and followed my escorts onto the plane. I

comforted myself with the fact that, when I next set foot in that airport, I’d be getting ready

to fly home.

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Chapter Ten

The government-run hotel in Gilgit was clean, bright and, as advertised, had a nice

lawn. I sat beside the window to enjoy the last of the evening light, after a dinner of curry

washed down with a non-alcoholic beer. I took another bottle back to my room and opened

the window to catch the evening breeze.

The call to prayer echoed through the town. In the hotel garden, a man in a shalwar

bowed in supplication on the lawn, screened by flowering bushes. The soft, rosy light was a

divine glow. I turned away, not wanting to intrude on his moment between him and Allah.

Instead, I drew the curtains, turned on the netbook and looked at photographs. It was

torment having nothing but those moments frozen in time. Colin sleeping on the hammock,

sitting on the beach with the wind in his hair, grinning as he peered around the shower

curtain and, the kicker, half-asleep in a tangle of white, cotton sheets.

I closed down the file and finished my beer.

* * * *

Gilgit had once been the northernmost British outpost in Colonial India, before the

bloody mess of Partition. It was a jumping-off point for adventurous travellers seeking the

Silk Road. Well, it used to be, before everything had gone tits-up, before nine-eleven, before

the allies had blundered into Afghanistan in search of blood and vengeance. Now, it was still

a bustling place, but it was the wrong sort of bustle. A bustle associated with grudges and

warfare. Jahangir and Farooq were on their toes when we walked to the bazaar. There was no

point in trying to pretend I was a tourist—there hadn’t been any tourists in town for ages. I

was uncomfortably aware that my pale skin and dark-red hair were tantamount to a huge

bullseye. Women in veils hurried past, averting their eyes. Men sitting in the open fronts of

stores watched me walk by.

I sidestepped one of the huge, brightly painted trucks that rattled along the road

between Gilgit and points along the Karakorum Highway. This one was a brilliant mosaic of

flowers, piled high with bits of scrap metal. My bodyguards edged closer. Jahangir’s hand

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rested on the butt of his gun, an exotically dressed cowboy in a frontier town far away from

the Wild West.

The place we were looking for was a shop selling arms quite openly. Farooq muttered

something that sounded like a prayer as we walked through the door.

The proprietor, dressed in one of those floppy mujahideen hats, sat beside the counter,

fanning himself and smoking. He didn’t stand when we entered. He merely set his fan down

and muttered a desultory, “Salaam Aleykum.”

“Walaykum salaam.” Jahangir did the talking. A rapid-fire exchange followed and the

proprietor rose and ushered us to the back room. This was nothing more than a clutter of

boxes, an ancient stove and a table and chairs. He gestured for us to sit and set about making

some tea. We sat at the table and waited. I stared out of the open door at the mountains

beyond. A cool breeze whispered across a dirt yard, bringing with it the scent of pines and

the sound of the river.

The strong, sweet tea was served in small, grubby glasses. Our host set a plate of small

biscuits in the middle of the table and sat down.

“So, you are looking for Syed.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I want to hear his story. That’s all.”

“What makes you think he has a story to tell?”

I shrugged and sipped my tea. “I have heard his name, heard of his deeds.” The

bastard I was looking for was a warlord and gunrunner. He kept the insurgents supplied

with everything they needed—explosives for IEDs, ammunition, cannon fodder. “I am a

journalist. I like to tell all sides of a story.”

“As you wish. I will see what I can do. It may take a day or two.”

“That’s fine.” I took another sip of tea and wondered if I could trust him. The contacts

I had said he was all right. That he was reliable. I hoped to fuck they were right.

“You must be very careful.” He added more biscuits to the plate. “This is a dangerous

place, sir.”

“Yes, I guessed as much. Thank you for your warning.”

He sighed and pushed the plate towards me. “I will do what I can. You must keep

your bodyguards with you at all times.”

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“I

will.”

Out of politeness, we stayed and finished the tea and ate a biscuit or two. The noise of

the bazaar crept through the open door. I was glad to get back out into the open air, into the

cool breeze and the disorder and colour of the bazaar.

* * * *

A boy brought a message from the bazaar. Syed had agreed to be interviewed. The

note told me to head onto the Karakorum Highway and towards Baltit. I’d be met

somewhere along the road, at a café near a glacier. Someone would come and collect me.

I showed the note to Farooq and Jahangir, who exchanged uneasy glances.

“Let’s get this over and done with,” I told them. “I just want to get back home, so the

sooner we see Syed, the better.”

“All right, Mr Harrison. We will do this. We will arrange a car.”

A car was arranged, a jeep, which Farooq assured me was best for the rigours of the

Karakorum Highway. We left Gilgit early the following morning, me armed with nothing

more than a change of clothes and a notebook, Farooq and Jahangir armed with much, much

more. Somehow, they had acquired rather large guns, semi-automatics, which they displayed

conspicuously. For the first time since arriving in Pakistan, I was scared—shit scared.

We crossed the Gilgit River and set out on the highway. I say ‘highway’—it’s a two-

lane, paved road, which follows the same winding course as the river. It clings to the side of

the mountains and follows the ancient path of one of the Silk Roads.

Mountains, their flanks scarred with rockslides and glaciers, rose out of the valley.

Snow fields gleamed blinding white in the late spring sunlight. A cool breeze kept the worst

of the heat from the jeep. If it wasn’t for the guns, I might have sat back and enjoyed the view

like any tourist. I didn’t even have my camera. I didn’t want to offend Syed any more than I

had to.

I don’t think the lorry drivers on the highway had more than a nodding acquaintance

with road etiquette. There were one or two occasions when we had two lorries, side by side,

bearing down on us. Jahangir marked each occasion with a whispered, hasty plea to Allah

and jammed on the brakes in panic, waiting for the lorries to sort themselves out. I clutched

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the fraying upholstery of the back seat and considered the irony of being killed in a traffic

accident rather than being murdered by terrorists.

When we weren’t dodging lorries, it wasn’t a bad drive. I could certainly understand

why tourists had travelled the road. We stopped once or twice to admire the views. With the

engine turned off and a quiet road, the river’s roar filled the steep, narrow valley. Opaque,

grey water tumbled over a stony bed. Now and then, we’d pass little houses, clinging to the

river bank and shaded by cypresses. Children waved as we drove past. Adults stared, their

expressions reminding me that I should not have been there.

The word ‘Karakorum’ means crumbling black rock in one of the regional languages.

There was certainly plenty of evidence along the way—the scars of rock slips on the

mountainsides, other places where the edge of the road looked like it was about to tumble

into the river. Some of the lips and ledges of stone that hung over the highway didn’t look

terribly stable, so I wasn’t surprised when Jahangir leaned on the brakes, swore and stopped

the jeep. A pile of rocks blocked the road. A lingering grey cloud of dust told me it was a

very recent event.

“What do we do now?” I asked. There didn’t seem to be any way around it.

Farooq shrugged and climbed out of the jeep. “Wait.” He eyed the scree above us

nervously. The side of the mountain was scored with gorges and chasms. A faint trail led into

one of them.

Jahangir spat into the dirt and cursed again. I wasn’t comforted when he picked up his

semi-automatic.

I gazed at the river below. In the silence, it roared and rumbled over stones, carrying

silt from distant glaciers. A footbridge swayed in the breeze. The gaps between the faded

planks were wide and I hoped we wouldn’t have to cross it in search of help. There was little

comfort in the fact that no other cars or lorries appeared.

I hit the floor of the jeep when the first shots echoed through the valley. I was back in

Afghanistan again, dodging the angry bee whine of bullets and spits of dust and stone.

Jahangir grabbed Farooq and they hauled me out of the jeep, onto the road, safe behind the

rusted, dusty metal of the car.

My heart pounded against my ribs and my hands shook while my bodyguards fired

back at invisible opponents. What a fucking way to go—not an accident, not a landslide but a

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fucking ambush. I admit I was too scared to feel regret, too confused to make sense of the

chaos. There was nowhere to run.

Suddenly, there were men everywhere, yelling, angry, waving guns. Their faces were

obscured by scarves, revealing snapping black eyes. Someone seized me by my shirt, hauled

me up, shoved something over my head. I was wrapped in musty-smelling darkness while

that someone dragged me away from the jeep. God alone knows what happened to Jahangir

and Farooq—the gunfire had ceased. I stumbled on unseen stones and bit back a yelp when

my shoulder was nearly wrenched out of its socket.

“You come with us.” Another tug.

I struggled to stay upright. Another hand grabbed my other arm. I had no choice but

to follow.

I was well and truly screwed.

Shit.

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Chapter Eleven

First rule of being taken hostage—even if you’re as angry and scared as fuck, stay

calm, behave, do what they tell you.

I was glad the sack over my head hid my face. God alone knows what expression was

frozen there. I only knew that I had to behave, not show fear, not show anger. I tripped and

stumbled, struggled for breath because they were taking me up the slope, where the air was

thinner, colder. A cold wind blew down from the snow fields. The sack made it hard to

breathe without inhaling a lungful of dust and the odour of old burlap.

My captors were silent, which made it hard to get any feel for voices or mood. It was

little comfort when the grip on my arms eased a little, still firm, still enough of a reminder

that there was no point in trying to run. I took another deep breath and found some reserves,

somewhere. The last thing I needed was for my captors to get annoyed because I couldn’t

keep pace with them. My legs were almost boneless, my shoes scrabbled for purchase on the

loose scree. The air was colder, thinner, the song of the river became a distant, restless

whisper. I wanted to ask about Jahangir and Farooq, but didn’t dare. In my mind’s eye, I saw

them, lying in pools of blood on the empty road, the jeep blasted with bullet holes. What

made that vision worse was the gut-churning knowledge that I had put them there. Their

blood was as much on my hands as it was on my captors’.

We walked forever, finding firmer ground. It levelled off. The damp chill of stone

closed around me. Footsteps echoed, as if we were in a corridor. I couldn’t even hear the

river, now, only the hard breathing of my captors and the distant cry of some bird. I tried to

remember everything, anything to stop panicking. After a while, I felt a breeze once more.

The echoing footsteps fell away, back on soil, hard packed. Then, I was hauled to a halt, left

standing, caught between my two escorts. There was some whispered talk, a few words

barked like orders.

“This

way.”

Someone wrenched me into a confined space, a subtle darkness beyond the cloth that

covered my head. The cold wind was gone and my feet were on something solid. I was

inside…something, somewhere. The distant bleat of goats gave me some clue, and the sound

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of a stream close by, tumbling over stones, downhill to freedom. I stood and waited,

wondering if those sounds would be the last thing I ever heard. I thought of Colin. I closed

my eyes and sought him. I bent low over his pillow and whispered.

“I’m sorry. I fucked up. Goodbye.”

Tears burnt my eyes. I squeezed them shut, willing the tears away. I couldn’t let these

bastards know.

A door creaked open, furniture scraped across the dirt floor, a hasty rearrangement.

My two escorts held me in place. I was grateful that they did—my legs were sponge, foam,

nothing else to hold them up. Someone shoved me forward and I tumbled into another

space, landing on my hands and knees.

“Stand up.”

I was hauled to my feet. Hands searched me, dug into the pockets of my jeans. The

buggers took my wallet. I waited, heard the slap of plastic hit the floor as my credit cards

were examined and discarded. The soft rustle of paper told me they’d found the money. Not

that I’d need it. There was a pause, a low murmur, something being passed around. I tried to

remember what else was in my wallet apart from credit card receipts, a few business cards

and…a photograph.

Not that, please don’t take that.

I held my breath and listened hard. In my mind’s eye, I watched them pass Colin’s

picture back and forth, questioning its presence in my wallet.

Please, dear God, don’t let them take that. Leave me some comfort, something to hold on to.

Someone pressed it into my hand, asked something.

I took a wild guess. “My brother.” Let them work out the genetics, how a blue-eyed,

brown-haired man could have a brother with brown eyes and black, curly hair.

“Okay.”

That was it. They didn’t return my wallet. I slid the photograph into my pocket,

absurdly grateful for that small mercy. I supposed, if I was a hostage, they needed someone

back home they could torment.

The shuffle of footsteps. The cloth or sack was finally pulled away. It took a moment

or two for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. My captors were just ghosts, faces still covered

with scarves. All of them carried guns, big ones. That was all I saw of them. They filed out of

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the space I was in, closed the door. The clink of a key in a lock was the last thing I heard

before being left in silence.

My legs finally gave out. I stumbled backwards, hands outstretched, searching for a

wall to slump against. I found it—rough, cold, hard. I slid down, glad of the support, glad of

the roughness of it beneath my fingertips. I found the floor, tucked my knees beneath my

chin and sat there, huddled up, trembling and fighting back an urge to weep.

My eyes slowly adjusted, turning the darkness into a sombre dimness. I took stock,

looking at what I’d have to live with—a thin mattress in one corner, a bucket in the next. I

was surprised to find a table and a stool. At least I wouldn’t spend what time I had left

grovelling about on the floor. A thin, silvery thread of light slipped through a gap in the

planks intended to block a window. I slid across the floor and parked myself there, huddled

against the wall.

I pulled the photograph from my pocket, seeking comfort. I’m not ashamed to say I

cried. I shoved the side of my hand into my mouth and wept while I looked at the man I’d

just hurt. I held the photograph to my cheek, wishing it was him, wishing I could see him

again, just one last time. I hated to think that our last goodbye had been that embrace at

Heathrow.

I closed my eyes, put the picture back in my pocket and prayed.

I have no idea how long I sat there, alone. I heard the rise and fall of voices in the next

room. Nothing more than tone, an argument, low at first then heated. Someone slammed

their hand against something, hard, and there was silence for a few moments. Then, the door

was wrenched open and one of my captors, still swathed in a scarf, aimed his rifle at me.

My pulse pounded in my ears. I curled my shaking hands into tight knots and looked

at the muzzle of the gun. I looked at his face, at cold, black eyes. He edged closer, shoved the

rifle against my temple. Cold metal burnt the thin skin there. Instinct and terror told me to

close my eyes. Instead, I took a deep breath and stared at him. I wasn’t going to die without

looking death in the face. Inside, I said my farewells and let a rush of good memories

overwhelm me.

I love you, Colin. I love you so much. Forgive me.

This was not the best time to realise I’d fallen in love with Colin. The regret burnt

more than the gunshot would. I hated the fact I was about to leave this world without telling

Colin what he’d waited so long to hear.

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The click of the safety catch. I hoped it would be too quick to hurt. At least he couldn’t

miss. I held my gaze but, inside my head, I saw Colin, sleeping, curled up next to me with

the morning sun on his shoulders.

There was no explosion, no echoing ricochet, just a sharp, dark pain and a fall into

darkness.

* * * *

My head hurt. Like the worst hangover I’d ever had. Worse than the pineapple and

Malibu, worse than any drunken college session I’d ever known, even worse than boarding

school port hangovers. I awoke on the cold floor, my chin sticky with drool. The little bit of

light had gone and the only light now came from beneath the door, a thin ribbon of

flickering, gold lamplight. They were still talking, a low murmur, the tones more balanced,

even, calmer. I relaxed, my fingers uncurled, felt the floor. I inhaled, feeling the rush of being

alive, of having hope. They could’ve killed me by now, so there was some purpose in

keeping me alive. The longer they kept me alive, the better.

I remained still when the door opened. This time there was no gun, just a plate and a

bottle of water. I closed my eyes when he placed them on the little table. Yes, they were

feeding me. Another good sign, another hint that I would be of more use to them alive than

dead.

I waited until he left with a soft snick of the latch and the sound of the key in the lock,

and stood up slowly. I was glad of the wall. I needed it to rest against while my head span. I

fought nausea, tried my best to ignore the pain in my skull and edged towards the stool. The

absence of light made my sense of smell sharper. Curried something, I wasn’t sure what, and

a couple of chapatti to eat it with. I tore off a piece of the flat bread and scooped at a

mouthful of the curried something. It hurt my head to chew and whatever it was needed a

lot of chewing. I suspected it was one of those goats I’d heard earlier. The spices masked the

worst of the musty, goaty taste and, since I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, I made do, washing

each mouthful down with tepid water. I would be a good little hostage. I’d been through the

training, I knew what I had to do. I just hoped that I had the strength to do it.

After my meal, I sought refuge on the mattress. They’d provided a thin, scratchy

blanket, which probably played host to all sorts of biting things. It smelt of goats and mould

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but it kept the worst of the chill away. I curled up on my side, curled right up, like a child

seeking shelter from nightmares. I closed my eyes and retreated into my memories, right

back to that first night, to how it felt to have Colin beside me, how it felt to hold him. I no

longer smelt the old blanket and the stale, dusty air of my cell. Instead, it was the scent of his

skin that drew me down into sleep, that and the warmth of his breath against my cheek.

Thank Christ for memories.

* * * *

“Come.”

A rush of daylight flooded into the room. I sat up and blinked, still wrestling with the

headache and the rancid aftertaste of last night’s dinner. No niceties like toothpaste or

mouthwash here.

“Come.”

I scrabbled to my feet, weaving slightly. My eyes hurt. I staggered forward. The man

caught my arm and pulled me into the other room. There were at least half a dozen people

there, still wearing scarves, all carrying guns. One of them opened the door and I was hauled

outside with a gun at my back.

The sunlight stabbed at my eyes, the gun pressed against my spine. My stomach rolled

in a black panic. I struggled to put one foot in front of the other. This was it. My pulse drove

my blood into my legs, everything else inside plummeted like a stone.

They’d been busy while I’d slept. A hastily painted banner, with a slogan in what I

assumed was in the local dialect, had been stretched between two posts. A chair sat in the

exact centre. I was pushed onto it. Several of my captors stood behind me, the muzzle of

every damn gun pointed at my head. Another stood in front of me with a small video

camera. I stared back at him. I didn’t want anyone to know that I was terrified. I thought

about what Colin and my family would feel when they saw this. I needed them to be

reassured that I would be all right. That I’d see them again. I searched for something I could

use, something I could focus on—listening to the whisper of the rain against the windows of

Colin’s flat, our flat.

The man holding the camera started babbling, sounding self-righteous and angry.

Someone jabbed a gun into my neck, another rested against my temple. I didn’t even

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swallow. I just stared the camera down, my head full of the rain, its song, silvery beads of

water on the glass. I hung on to it while the ranting continued. It was too easy to remember

other videos—pale, frightened faces, machetes held to their throats and worse, machetes

used. I pushed those thoughts away and imagined I could see Colin, see him looking back at

me.

Everything will be all right. Don’t be worried. I’ll find my way back to you, I promise.

It was all I could do. I didn’t want to be like those other frightened faces. Rule number

two—be stoical. I did my best. Watched the camera, listened to the birdsong and felt the

morning sun on my face. There were worse places to die. A huge ache filled me, a wrenching

pain. I’d die without seeing Colin again.

Finally, the cameraman stopped ranting. The guns were lowered. The show was over.

Instead, while one man stood guard over me, the others clustered around the camera and

watched the playback. They watched it two or three times, nodding and nudging each other,

clearly very pleased with themselves. I stared at them while my pulse stuttered and slowed

to something close to normal. One of the men hauled me to my feet.

“Come.”

In spite of my shaking legs, I managed to keep up with him while he dragged me to

the hut. I took a deep breath, wanting to fill my lungs with as much fresh air as they could

take. The sun felt too good on my skin.

Back to my cell, followed by my captors. I leaned against the table, still shaking. The

cameraman grinned and nodded at me while he stood in the doorway.

“You very good. Very brave.”

I managed a nod in return.

He closed the door, leaving me in stale darkness again, relieved that something had

gone right. I didn’t even want to think about the impact that video would have. Soon

enough, it would be all over the place, on the internet, on the BBC, introduced by a

newsreader with a grave voice. There would be blurry stills on the front page of newspapers,

clusters of reporters around my parents’ house. The stone was tossed and I wondered how

wide the ripples would spread.

* * * *

“You get up…now.”

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My hair was being wrenched out by the roots. I opened my eyes to find one of my

captors, one with a wall-eye, his face flushed scarlet with fury, looming over the mattress.

My heart pounded and I struggled to breathe when I scrambled to my feet.

He let go and stepped back. “Disgusting infidel.” He spat on the floor. “No sleep

now.”

I found the wall and pressed myself against it. Beyond him the door was open but the

other room was empty. Christ, he was going to beat me to death while we were alone. I

wondered if I’d have the strength to evade him and run.

He seized me by the throat and held me against the wall. I clawed at his hands,

fighting to pull his fingers away. But there was nothing in me. My hands fell away. Breathing

had become a luxury. My tormentor’s face was an angry blur. He leaned close. His breath

reeked of onions and his good eye burned with hate.

“I kill you now.”

This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. Me being choked to death like an unwanted

dog. I wished my own hatred was enough to fight him off. All I could do was bat uselessly at

him while blackness swarmed around the edges of my vision.

It wasn’t fucking fair.

I slumped against the wall. Only his hand held me up, because my legs were boneless.

When the other room exploded into shouts, he stepped back and I slid to the floor. The fact

that the others were berating him meant nothing to me. I was just glad I was still alive. I

watched him being pushed out of the room while one of the others knelt in front of me.

“I am sorry. Are you all right?”

Do you have three hours? Let me tell you.

I stared at him and nodded.

His voice dropped to a whisper. “He is a bad man. We did not want him here.” He

shrugged. “But we had no say. We will do what we can to keep him away from you.”

“Fine.” My voice was a raven’s croak.

He rose and patted my shoulder. “Do not worry.”

I watched him walk away and wished I could believe him.

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Chapter Twelve

Rule number three—actively use stress management techniques, try to adopt a daily

routine.

I stripped down to my shorts and started on my press-ups. I’d worked my way up to

fifty before my arms started to burn. After a few minutes wishing I was somewhere else, I

started on my sit-ups. It didn’t matter that they hurt. I thought beyond the pain, staring at a

knot in one of the boards.

Fifty-one, fifty-two…

Sunlight slipped through the gap in the boards leaving a thin trail of light across the

floor. Something rustled in the corner.

Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty…

Hushed voices in the other room, punctuated by the clink of cutlery and someone’s

barking coughs.

Sixty-one, sixty-two…

I stopped at seventy, struggled to my feet and reached for my cup. There was enough

tepid water remaining from the night before to dampen my tongue. I set the cup down when

the door swung open. One of my captors carried in a battered tin plate and a smudged glass

filled with weak tea.

“Breakfast.” He said the same thing every morning as he placed the plate and glass on

the table. “Eat.”

“I will, thank you.” I offered him a smile. I always did. They didn’t have to feed me, so

every meal was a bonus.

He smiled back and left me in peace. I tore a piece off the chapatti and placed a few

crumbs of cheese on it. The sour cheese brought some life to the dry, flat bread. I sipped my

lukewarm tea and watched the dust shift idly through the streak of sunlight, while my

captors ate their breakfast in the other room.

When breakfast was finished, I retreated to the meagre patch of sunlight and scratched

at my beard for a while, hating it. I couldn’t look at my skin, grey and grubby with ingrained

dirt and pockmarked with bites. The countless weeks had turned me into an unspeakable

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mess, something anyone might wrinkle their nose at if they found me sleeping in a pile of

newspapers on the street. While my hosts took their prayer mats out into the morning sun, I

scratched my itches and tried to ignore the stench from the bucket in the corner.

The morning prayers drifted through the gap, accompanied by the usual chorus of

goats and the careless song of the stream as it ran downhill towards the river. I closed my

eyes and imagined the cold water swirling around my ankles, washing the filth away. I

wanted soap more than I wanted a good meal.

Prayers were over, overtaken by a bustling. Someone shouted orders, the other room

filled with low grumblings and scraping chairs.

In my mind, I was knee deep in the stream, scrubbing the dirt from my knees. The

door burst open.

“You, come, now.” Wall-eye had his scarf wrapped around his face. One brown eye

snapped at me over the grubby edge of fabric, the other perpetually fixed towards the

ceiling. Heart pounding, I scrambled to my feet.

“Get dressed.” He pointed to the ragged pile of clothes on the mattress. “Quick.”

I struggled into my clothes, hating the stink of them.

“Hurry.” His slap came out of nowhere.

I staggered back against the wall and stared at him. My stomach rolled and I trembled,

shrinking away from his clenched fist.

“You will hurry.”

I tasted blood and edged back towards the mattress, reaching for my shirt with a

shaking hand.

I’d no sooner zipped my flies than he dragged me out. His haste gave me no time to

feel anything but raw panic. The banner was there again and a chair waited for me,

surrounded by my captors, their faces swathed in scarves. It had been a while since I’d seen

full daylight, felt the breeze. When my eyes had adjusted to the brilliant light, I sank onto the

chair and tried to work out when it was. The breeze had some warmth to it, the surrounding

trees were green, soft. The scent of rain was in the air. It was summer, but when, I couldn’t

tell.

Someone hacked at my beard with scissors, trimmed it up so it lay close to my skin. It

still itched but I was glad to be rid of the length. I murmured a ‘thank you’ and was

rewarded with a nod, acknowledging my existence. Were they tidying me up before one last

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100

video? My fingers curled into knots. I hoped it would be quick but I kept thinking of that one

dreadful video—a British hostage whose throat had been cut on tape. His screams had

haunted me for days. I hoped I wouldn’t scream. I didn’t want to leave this world on a

grainy, jumpy film with my throat cut and my pain echoing in my loved ones’ ears forever.

No, I’m not ready for this.

It didn’t seem right that it would end here, on a mountainside. I wanted time to say

goodbye before I was slaughtered like a sheep. I would’ve given anything just to see Colin

once more, feel his breath soft on my lips. Just one more time. I closed my eyes for a moment

and whispered, “Forgive me, I love you.”

The breeze rose for a moment sending a tiny eddy of leaves across the dirt. I took a

deep breath and stared into the camera without much shame, or fear. Again, I thought of

Colin, imagined him watching and thought of the rain.

There was more babble, angry once more. Someone held a knife to my throat. I waited

for its sting. I just wanted to wake up in our bed in Oxford, with Colin hogging the duvet

and resting on my pillow. I wanted to touch his eyebrows, follow the bird’s-wing sweep of

them, kiss his eyelids while he slept.

The knife remained at my throat while one of my captors babbled furiously. I thought

of Colin and all that had been good between us. It was a fine memory to take out of this

world with me. The speech finished, the blade fell away. The cameraman lowered his scarf

and smiled. He patted my shoulder. “Very good. You are a brave man.”

I managed a weak smile and let him help me to stand. A bird flew overhead, a large

one, soaring on a high current. I envied it, having a life governed only by hunger and

survival. All it cared about was where its next meal was coming from. I watched it wheel

away and something inside me slipped.

Wall-eye dragged me back to my cell. I could tell from the tone of his voice that he

was heaping insults on me. After the sunlight and the fresh air, I didn’t want to go back and

struggled to comply with rule number one—yeah, be compliant. It was hard, when some

moronic, sadistic fuckwit was handling you like a piece of dead meat. I curled my hands into

fists. My nails bit into my palms, hurting, bringing welcome pain. The others just stood there,

watching him, probably waiting to see if he’d beat me again.

Oh no. This time, my friends, it isn’t going to happen.

He shoved me through the door. I kept my footing.

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101

One, two…three.

“No, you fucking don’t.” I swung around. I might have been a hell of a lot thinner, but

I was stronger. My fist hit his cheekbone with a satisfying crack. He staggered back, dropped

his gun and fell into the other room. For a moment, there was stunned silence as half a dozen

men stared at the fallen man. Someone sprang forward and seized his gun before I had a

chance to lunge for it. Someone else grabbed Wall-eye by his collar and dragged him across

the floor. One of his colleagues kicked him. I stood there, glaring, chest heaving, fist

smarting, and waited.

“You might as well kill me,” I told them. “No one is going to pay a ransom. No one is

going to be set free who shouldn’t be. Just fucking kill me.” I wanted to cry. My throat was

tight. I’d had enough of this fuckwittery. I dropped to my knees, breathless, and grabbed the

muzzle of the nearest gun. I guided it to my forehead, closed my eyes and held it there. My

fingers cramped around the metal.

“Just do it.” I sank back onto my heels and stared at the gunman, daring him. “Grow a

pair and do it.”

More stunned silence. The gunman wrenched the gun out of my grip and backed

away. While I sat there, they huddled together, murmuring, whispering, casting uneasy

glances in my direction. I’d been quiet for so long, a model prisoner. They didn’t know what

to do with this new one—the deranged, suicidal one who just wanted out.

Finally, one of them stepped forward. “I am sorry. We will not kill you. You are worth

nothing to us dead.”

“I am one man, a journalist. No one will care if I live or die, apart from my family.

There are people sitting in England, right now, thinking that it serves me right for being

somewhere I shouldn’t be. I am nothing, no one. Not to anyone but those I love.”

He sank into a chair, removed the scarf from his face and rubbed his eyes. “We are not

bad men,” he sighed.

I bit back a response and waited.

“We don’t want to kill you. We will try and avoid doing that. I am sorry for your

unhappiness.”

An apology. Jesus H. Christ. How often did that happen? “Then let me go.”

He shook his head. “We can’t do that.”

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102

“How long have I been here?” If nothing else, I needed to know that. I needed some

fixed point in time.

“One month, maybe six weeks.”

I stared at him. July. Colin would be on summer break. All that time we could’ve

spent together had slipped past. They had stolen my time, they had stolen our time. I covered

my face with my hands. I didn’t cry. I wasn’t going to cry in front of them. But I thought of

all the days I had missed. I imagined our flat, green and gold with sunlight pouring through

the trees. I thought of prosaic, small things—Sunday afternoon cricket, salmon paste on

brown bread, cups of tea, the sound of rain whispering against glass. I was missing it all.

“What can we do?” He shrugged, looked down at his hands.

“Give me some daylight.” A little nudge. If I had this wish granted, perhaps other

concessions would follow.

He nodded to one of the others. Said something. They strode into my cell and tore a

board away. Light—lovely, golden light—found dancing specks of dust and touched the

filthy mattress. The breeze blew through the room, found my skin, coiled around me. I smelt

rain and the snow fields, green grass. The stream was a lot louder.

“Thank you.” I staggered to my feet and walked back into my cell. I slumped onto the

floor beneath the window and closed my eyes, just glad to feel the warmth of the sun on my

face.

They left the door open. Someone dragged a chair to the doorway and sat with his

back to me. The combination of light and fresh air was like finding gold after digging

through horseshit. They left me alone. Let me sit there and look at the tattered photograph in

real sunlight.

“You miss him.” The guard had turned around. His gun rested across his knees.

“Yes.” Keep the answers short and truthful—rule number four.

“What of the rest of your family?”

“I miss them, too.”

“Your parents are still alive?”

If the shock of what had happened hadn’t killed them. “Yes.”

“Hopefully, you will see them all soon.”

I glared at him.

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103

“You seem like a good man. Have faith in Allah, Mr Harrison.” He rose and walked

away, leaving me in silence.

I put the photograph away. Looking at it for too long hurt too much.

* * * *

The door remained open during the day. Wall-eye had gone, never to be seen again.

The food didn’t improve much, though I got a bit more and it was always delivered with a

smile and a nod. If I got back to England in one piece, I was going to tell the people who ran

the hostage course that, sometimes, you could break the rules and make things better.

Sometimes the single guard would sit on his chair by the door and talk to me. His

English wasn’t up to much, but we managed.

“I have cousins in England,” he announced one day.

“Really?

Where?”

“Birmingham.”

I should’ve known. “Sparkbrook?”

He grinned. “How did you know?”

“Lucky

guess.”

“You have been there?”

“Once or twice. There are good restaurants there.” I thought with longing of a sizzling

bowl of curry served with nothing more than a naan bread as big as a manhole cover. No

knives or forks, just the curry and the naan.

“My uncle owns a restaurant in Sparkbrook.” He grinned again, his eyes wide at the

coincidence. “Perhaps you have eaten there.”

I hadn’t the heart to tell him there were dozens of balti places in that part of

Birmingham. “Perhaps.”

We talked about other things on other days. Football, cricket, the sorts of things that

men discuss, usually over a drink or two in a pub rather than in a filthy hut on a remote

mountainside.

“You are not married. Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No.”

“You are good-looking man. Why no girlfriend?”

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104

I shrugged. “No time. I’m away too much.”

He shook his head. “Every man should marry.”

“Are

you

married?”

“Not yet. It has been arranged. She is a good girl, from a good family.”

“I hope it works for you.”

“It will, I am sure.” He stood up and stretched. “I must go. It is someone else’s turn

now.”

I leant back against the wall in my patch of sunlight and closed my eyes. Conversation

exhausted me, because I had to remember to reveal as little as possible. I couldn’t give them

the satisfaction of letting them know how much I was hurting.

* * * *

Seventy-five press-ups and one hundred and fifty sit-ups a day left my shirt flapping

like sails on an old schooner running before a storm. I fastened the last button and sat at the

table and stared at my breakfast. Today there was a hard-boiled egg resting on the side of the

plate. Akbar, the young, friendly lad, had beamed when he’d produced the egg out of his

coat pocket, a finger to his lips.

“This is our secret,” he’d whispered.

“Thank you.” I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had an egg.

“Give me the pieces of shell and I’ll get rid of them.” Akbar had glanced over his

shoulder, to where the others were outside, eating their breakfast in the sun.

I’d peeled the egg and handed Akbar the shell fragments, which he’d pocketed.

“I will leave you to eat in peace.” He’d grinned and left me, closing the door behind

him.

The egg gleamed in the soft light, bright next to the dun circle of chapatti. A small dab

of rice, left over from the previous night’s supper, and a scant handful of dried apricots

completed the meal. It was the best breakfast I’d been given for weeks.

I took my time, savouring the comforting blandness of the egg and the sweetness of

the apricots. The morning’s glass of tea was larger than usual and sweeter. I sipped it, stared

through the gap in the planks and tried to work out the days, the month. The nights had

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started to get cooler and through my four-inch gap of window the cypress trees had begun to

turn, their leaves changing to gold beneath the late summer sun.

After Akbar had retrieved my empty plate and glass, another of his colleagues

appeared in the doorway. He looked at me for a moment while scratching thoughtfully at his

beard. I stared back and sat on my shaking hands. My pulse went into overdrive as I waited

for him to pull out a gun or knife.

Instead he sighed and sat down at my table.

I took a deep breath and waited.

“It seems you have powerful friends, Mr Harrison.”

Something inside me lifted. “Really?”

He sighed again and studied his fingernails. “Apparently, you should have been left

alone. There is a very angry cleric back in England.”

“Al Masood?”

“Yes. Now we must figure out what to do.”

“What do you mean?” I pinched my forearm. The quick, sharp nip assured me that I

was awake.

“You must be patient. I need to talk to some people.” He rose. “In the meantime, we

will make sure you are well cared for. Someone is getting you some clean clothes. Akbar will

bring you some hot water so you can wash.”

“Thank you.” My head reeled with questions. Instead of asking them, I remained

where I was and watched him walk away, leaving the door open behind him.

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Chapter Thirteen

At first, I thought it was thunder. The storms were always louder in the mountains,

amplified by stone, their noise roaring along high valleys. I sat up, heart pounding, shaking.

The front room erupted into shouts and panic. Flashes of light beneath the door, too quick for

lightning, too loud for thunder. Gunfire followed, rapid, loud, horrifying. I huddled in the

corner, hugging that filthy scrap of blanket, and wondered what the fuck was happening.

More shouts, pained yelps, screams, a final defiant splatter of gunfire. I clung to the blanket

and prayed. The door burst open and I prepared myself to die.

“Evan Harrison?” A figure in shadow. Not dressed like them—no soft floppy shalwar,

no long beard. A smart uniform, buttons glinting in the uncertain light. A beret, a clipped

voice. Not one of them.

“Yes.” I couldn’t move.

“Captain Imran Kayani. Come with me, please.”

He held out his hand. I stumbled to my feet, ambled forward, shaking, holding out my

hand. Fickle moonlight revealed an army officer, one of Pakistan’s finest. I could’ve kissed

him. Instead, I grasped the hand he held out. I held on to it hard, smiling as I shook it.

“It’s bloody good to meet you.” I held my tears in. It would’ve been easy to cry.

Instead, I followed him into the other room, stepping over the bodies of my captors. I stared

at them numbly and wanted to vomit. They needn’t have died. They hadn’t deserved that.

Akbar had fallen by the door. Blood, black in the starlight, spread in a dark halo

around his head. Blank eyes gazed past me and his face was forever marked with

astonishment. I knelt and closed his eyes. He had shown me kindness when I had expected

none—I could at least return the favour. I mumbled a prayer and swallowed at the lump in

my throat.

Sorry, I’m so sorry.

Kayani took my arm and helped me to my feet. “We should go.” His voice was kind.

I didn’t even look back when they led me away, back down the slope I’d been hauled

up months before. Someone had brought up a stretcher. I waved it away. I wanted to walk

under my own steam. Relief kept me going, stepping carefully down the sliding stones,

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surrounded by soldiers. One of them spoke into a radio. A few minutes later, lights in the

night sky, the roar of a helicopter, the comforting, awe-inspiring whomp-whomp-whomp of its

rotor blades. I stood for a moment and watched it approach and land on the road below,

where a convoy of jeeps waited, blocking the highway. I couldn’t believe they’d gone

through all of that to rescue me.

“We’ll fly you back to Gilgit,” the captain told me. “Tomorrow, Islamabad, and you

can go home.”

Home. A word I’d pushed out of my mind. A word I hadn’t been able to bring myself

to say for ages. A place I’d given up on.

“What day is it?”

“Monday.”

“What month?” I needed to know.

The captain looked at me, a flash of pity in his eyes. “September. It’s the fourteenth of

September.”

Jesus Christ. Over four months. A third of a year. At home, summer would be leaving,

the leaves turning. The BBC would be showing new programmes and the football season

would be in gear. I’d be home for autumn, for nights in front of the fire, rain and gales, pie

and chips. Pre-Christmas hype.

He guided me to the waiting chopper and climbed in behind me. In the dim light of

the cabin sat a man in a suit, his demeanour screaming Foreign Office. He leant forward and

shook my hand.

“It’s good to see you, Mr Harrison.”

I looked at his pale skin, smooth face, blue eyes. His was the first white face I’d seen

for months. It took me a moment to absorb it all.

“Nice to see you too, Mr…?”

“Damien Vaughn, Foreign Office.”

I sank into the vacant seat beside him. My fingers trembled when I fastened my seat

belt. Every limb shook and the walk down the mountain had left me breathless. I stared out

of the window and wondered when I’d wake up.

“Don’t worry.” Vaughn tapped my knee. “We’ll be back in Gilgit in no time.”

The captain leant forward and tapped the pilot’s shoulder. The helicopter lifted off,

away from the soldiers, away from the highway, away from hell. After months of mountain

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silence, the roar and vibration of the rotor blades tore through me. I watched the lights on the

ground recede, then closed my eyes, wishing I could shut out the noise.

A few minutes later, we were in Gilgit, landing on the lawn of the Park Hotel. We

stepped into a chaotic circle of lights and cameras. Vaughn and the captain flanked me.

Vaughn gave the press a dismissive wave, saying that any talking would be done back in

London. After months of lamplight and silence, the usual press melée was a strange and

frightening beast. An image of my face would be sent around the world. It would probably

make the ten o’ clock news on the BBC. I imagined Colin, my family, their relief and

apprehension. Looking at the mess they’d loved and never thought to see again.

I followed Vaughn away from the lights, into the shadowed lobby of the hotel. The

captain smiled and shook my hand once more. I stared at him, trying to find words.

“Thank you, captain. I can’t even begin to thank you as much as you and your men

deserve.” I wanted to hug him.

“I’m glad it all worked out for you. Good luck, Mr Harrison.”

“Thank

you.”

He nodded to Vaughn, saluted me and disappeared back out to meet the press. No

doubt to give them a summary of the operation, the operation that had set me free.

“I should think you’d like a shower,” Vaughn said.

“I would—and a shave and some clean clothes.”

“Your belongings are in your room. Would you like something to eat?”

“I just want to get clean.” In the spotlesslobby of the hotel, my own odour made me

want to vomit.”I’ll worry about food later.” I followed Vaughn along the corridor. He took a

key from his pocket and opened the door to one of the posher rooms at the Park Hotel. It was

more of a suite. My clothes were on the bed, my netbook on the desk. All the bits and pieces

I’d left behind and never thought I’d see again. My escort sank into a chair. I supposed he

had orders not to let me out of his sight.

I sorted through my backpack, dug out my shaving gear, toothbrush and toothpaste

and disappeared into the bathroom. I let the water run until the room was damp and hot

with billowing steam. I stepped under the torrent of water and stood there, my head tilted

back. It was enough just to feel the water coursing down my face, running down my neck,

streaming down my body. I reached for the soap and wept as the scent of it rose with the

steam. I would never take showers for granted again. Never. I glanced down at my feet, at

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the dirty water sluicing down the drain, glad to say goodbye to it. After a while, I reached for

my razor and foam and rid myself of the wretched beard. I scraped it away, feeling my face

emerge, feeling skin. Hair followed dirt down the drain. I turned off the water, dried myself

off and wrapped a towel around my waist. I didn’t even want to look at myself in the

bathroom mirror. I wasn’t ready to meet that person just yet.

By the time I stepped out of the bathroom, Vaughn was drinking a beer, a real beer.

There was a bottle waiting for me, cold, tiny, brilliant beads of condensation clinging to the

brown glass. There was a plate of sandwiches with proper bread, white bread. Such a simple

thing. I took one and sipped my beer. I’d often thought that a freed hostage’s first meal

would be something spectacular, like steak, or pizza, even a burger. Nope, mine was a plate

of salmon and cucumber sandwiches and I can honestly say I’ve never tasted better, before or

since.

I took a sip of beer, careful not to drink it too fast and fall asleep drunk on my first

night of freedom.

“Jesus, that’s good.” Hops, ice cold bubbles.

“It’s not bad, is it?”

I noticed the phone for the first time. It had always been there, of course, sitting on the

bedside table. Before, it had just been an ornament. Now it was something entirely different.

“I want to phone home.” I said. “Can I?”

“Of course you can. We’ve got the bill covered.”

It didn’t matter—I would’ve bankrupted myself to hear my family’s voices again, to

hear Colin’s. I glanced at the clock. It would be about seven in England. Mum and Dad

would be sitting down to dinner in front of the TV. As much as I wanted to hear Colin’s

voice, I knew I had to phone them first. I picked up the phone and dialled for an outside line.

I waited through the sequence of clicks and whirrs then punched in their number. Even the

English dialling tone sounded foreign to me. I counted, one…two… It normally gave three

rings before Mum reached the phone. I imagined her walking across the living room to the

phone, where it rested on a little table.

“Hello?”

I took a deep breath. “Mum?”

There was silence for a long moment. “Evan?” Her voice wobbled. “Evan?”

“Yes, Mum. It’s me.”

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She burst into tears. I swallowed, not wanting to join her. I didn’t want to cry in front

of the man with the suit from the Foreign Office. “It’s all right, I’m safe. I’m free.”

“I know.” She sobbed. “We had a phone call about an hour ago. Someone from the

Foreign Office, they told us. We didn’t know whether you’d call or not.”

“Well, here I am.”

“Oh, darling. It’s been so awful.”

“I

know.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing your voice. I can’t believe this.”

I heard the soft rumble of Dad’s voice.

“Darling, let me put your father on. I can’t talk, I can’t take this in.”

There was a rattle. “Son?”

“Dad.” I looked up at the ceiling.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I just want to come home.”

“Do you know when?”

I looked at Vaughn, covered the mouthpiece. “When do I fly home?”

“Very early on Wednesday morning. You’ll be back in London by lunchtime on

Wednesday. Don’t worry, we’ll let your parents know exactly when. We’ve got special

arrangements for things like this.”

I’d guessed as much.

“Dad, I’ll be back by lunchtime on Wednesday. Someone will let you know

everything.”

“We’ll be there, son.”

There was something I needed to ask. My hand tightened around the phone. “Does

Colin know?” I closed my eyes and waited, hoping.

“We phoned him as soon as we heard the news. He’s probably on his way here right

now.”

Thank Christ.

“How is he?”

“Beside himself. He’s probably going to get done for speeding.”

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I could imagine that, Colin hammering that Peugeot of his down the M40. For once, I

wished he’d drop that notion of leaving the phone off while he drove. I wanted to hear his

voice.

“It’s been hell for him. Hard enough for us, but at least we had each other. He’s stayed

with us a few weekends. We’ve done our best to keep his spirits up.”

I swallowed once more. Words caught in my throat. “Thanks, Dad. Thanks for looking

after him.”

“It’s all right, son. We love him. He’s family now.”

“I’m sorry I put you all through this. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be so bloody stupid.” I could hear him smile. “We’re just glad you’re coming

home.”

“So am I.” I couldn’t even begin to imagine it all, that I would soon be home. “I should

go. There’ll be plenty of time to catch up when I get back.” I wanted to phone Colin. Even if it

was just to hear his voice on the answer phone.

“Yes, good idea. We can’t wait. We really can’t.”

“Neither can I. I’ll see you in a little while. It can’t come soon enough.”

I put the phone down. Picked it up again and punched in Colin’s number. I waited,

counting the rings until the answer phone kicked in. My fingers cramped around the

handset. When he answered himself, I nearly wept. I hoped he wasn’t driving, I didn’t want

him running off the road in shock.

“Colin?” My throat constricted.

“Hello?” Silence, punctuated by the slow ticking of the indicator. He was in the car.

“Colin.”

“Jesus.”

I rubbed my eyes.

“Evan?”

“Yeah, it’s me.” Tears burned my cheeks. “Where are you?”

“Stuck in a fucking traffic jam on the M40. For the first time in my life, I couldn’t care

less.” His voice shook. “I can’t bloody believe this.”

“Neither can I.” I groped for a tissue and wiped my eyes. It didn’t matter that Vaughn

was in the room.

“When will you be home?”

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“Lunchtime on Wednesday.”

“Thank Christ.” His breath hitched. What a bloody pair we were. “I’ll be there.”

I sniffed. “Good. I just want to see you. I can’t wait to see you. I’ve missed you so

much.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.” It felt so fucking good to say it.

There was a pause, a silence. If I hadn’t heard the distant buzz of the car radio, I

would’ve thought the line had gone dead.

“You

do?”

“Yes. I do.” I tried to imagine his face. I could’ve waited but he needed to know. I

wanted him to know.

“Just hurry home, please.”

I took another tissue and blew my nose. “I am. I’ll be home very soon.” I took a deep

breath. “I should go. I can hardly speak. I’ll see you soon.”

“I can hardly drive. I’ll see you. God, how I’ll see you.”

The line went dead. I blew my nose once more and looked at Vaughn. “Thank you.

Thank you for everything.”

“It’s my pleasure, Mr Harrison. It’s nice to have a story with a happy ending, for a

change.”

I retrieved my beer, suddenly tired.

He rose. “I’ll leave you in peace. I’m in the next room. Just yell if you need anything.

Don’t worry about debriefing, we’ll take care of that on the plane. I’m sure you’re anxious to

get it out of the way before you get home.”

“Yeah, I am.” I didn’t want anything to interfere with my homecoming.

I waited until he left the room and locked the door behind him. I drained the rest of

my beer, covered my face and cried like a child.

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Chapter Fourteen

I peered out of the window as the runway rose to meet us. London was washed in a

soft, autumn drizzle. Droplets of water streamed across the glass. The captain said that the

temperature was a chilly fourteen degrees. It could’ve been minus fourteen for all I cared. My

hands shook. I kept staring out of the window, at the industrial gloom of Heathrow, the

brilliantly coloured liveries of other planes. I watched the little lorry with its flashing light

come out to guide our plane to the gate. Seat belts unclicked up and down the cabin.

Luggage containers popped open. I stood up and retrieved my backpack. We were in first

class, a first for me. Vaughn stood up behind me. He’d explained that, once off the plane, I’d

be taken to a private room so I could be reunited with my family in peace and privacy.

Afterwards, there’d be a brief press conference. As brief as I wanted it to be. It was my call. It

would be strange, to be on the other side of that bank of microphones.

The cabin crew were very kind. They knew who I was and had spoilt me relentlessly

on the long flight. They all lined up to shake my hand when I walked off the plane. I

shouldered my bag and walked along the gangway, surprised to see airport workers, all in

their uniforms, lined up and clapping. Shit, I hadn’t been expecting this. I felt my face burn

while I smiled my thanks. One of those golf carts with the flashing light waited at the gate.

Feeling horribly conspicuous, I climbed aboard, Vaughn behind me. I was glad of his

presence, glad he was there to negotiate my way through the unexpected hoopla around my

return. Passengers parted as the golf cart passed through. I gazed at the everyday chaos of

the airport as if I was seeing it for the first time. Lucky people, heading with purpose to

baggage claim, going home to quiet lives that had never been disturbed.

I tried to remember to breathe. Colin was here, I would see him. My pulse was all over

the place, fluttering until I was almost dizzy with it. I wiped my clammy palms on my jeans

and willed the cart to hurry.

The cart slowed, turning into a quiet corridor. It stopped in front of a plain metal door.

“Are you ready?” Vaughn asked.

I took a deep breath. “Christ, yes.” I leaned against the door and pushed it open. My

legs could scarcely hold me.

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“Oh, God.” That was Mum, all tears and bright eyes. She was across the room in an

instant. She threw her arms around my neck and wept loudly. My dad followed, a touch

more reticent. He held us both. I fought tears and held on to them. Inhaling the scent of

Mum’s perfume, inhaling the scent of home and childhood. After months without a kind

touch, it was almost too much. But I was aware of Colin, standing in silence, waiting. I

stepped away from my parents and looked at him for a long time. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t

breathe. He was more than memory had promised. His eyes were alive with unspoken

words, a hectic flush on his pale cheeks. His chest rose and fell with a long, shuddering

breath.

I don’t remember crossing the room, I don’t remember getting there. Whether he

moved, or I did, I fell into his arms and clung to him. I lost my fingers in his hair, the curls

wild from the rain. His breath was warm on my skin. There were no words. There was

nothing either of us could’ve said to mark the occasion. There would be plenty of time for

words later. Colin’s heart hammered against my chest, mine pounded against his. We both

trembled. He took a small step back and cradled my face in his hands. I looked at him, lost,

wordless, ready to cry. I touched his cheek, his eyebrows, trailed my fingers along the line of

his jaw, as I’d done with his photograph so many times. Those horrible days when I’d

thought I’d never see him again. I didn’t want to let go.

Vaughn coughed gently. “Let’s get this conference out of the way, eh?”

I nodded and wondered how the hell I was ever going to answer any questions.

“It’s all right,” Colin whispered. “I’ll be with you. We’ll all be with you.”

I held on to his hand, felt his fingers thread through mine. We followed Vaughn

through another door, into the press lounge. The flash of cameras took me by surprise. Mum

and Dad sat down first, Dad on my left. I sat down and Colin sat beside me. I wasn’t going to

let go of his hand.

Vaughn turned on his microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, as you can appreciate, Mr

Harrison has been through quite an ordeal. I’d like to keep this brief for his sake. I hope you

can understand that.”

I would never write another bad word about the Foreign Office again. Vaughn was

like some sodding guardian angel. I gazed out across the room and recognised a whole raft

of faces. I’d sat with them in the same room many times. One or two waved when I spotted

them. They were colleagues and I knew they’d honour Vaughn’s advice.

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The first question came from my boss. He grinned when he stood up. “I’d like to start

by welcoming you back, Mr Harrison. It’s a bit strange to see you on that side of the mic, but

it’s bloody brilliant to see you.”

Everyone applauded. My mother sniffled and Colin squeezed my hand under the

table.

“It’s good to be back.” I looked at the bottle of water in front of me. I would’ve loved a

drink but it took two hands to open a bottle. I wasn’t going to let go of Colin, no bloody way.

“How are you feeling?”

“Relieved, exhausted, delighted to be home. I’m sure once I’ve had a rest I’ll come up

with something more meaningful to say.”

John grinned. “We’ll catch up later and talk about that exclusive, eh?”

A faint ripple of laughter echoed around the room.

Vaughn nodded at the correspondent from The Guardian. He stood up. “How did your

captors treat you?”

I dismissed thoughts of Wall-eye and guilt nudged at me. I saw Akbar lying dead and

still in the chaotic darkness. “Considering the circumstances, they treated me well. They fed

me and looked after me.”

Someone

from

The Sun was next. I braced myself for a stupid question. I wasn’t

disappointed.

“What did they give you to eat?”

“Curried mutton and stale chapattis, most days. I won’t be eating curry again for a

long time.” Just thought I’d make that clear.

Colin’s thumb caressed my palm. I wanted to go home. I wanted peace and quiet.

“Did they harm you in any way?” This was a reporter from The Daily Telegraph.

“There was one who wasn’t very nice. But, no, as I said, I was treated well, given the

circumstances.”

I looked at Vaughn, wishing he would call it to a close.

He nodded and held up his hands. “I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but Mr Harrison,

as you can understand, is very tired and he needs some time to recover from his ordeal. I’ll

be happy to give you a briefing on the actual operation to free him.”

It wasn’t like they had any choice. I stood up, gave them all a brief wave and escaped

with my family and Colin back to the private room. Vaughn stuck his head around the door.

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“You’re free to go, Mr Harrison.” He handed me a card. “If you need anything,

anything at all, let me know.”

“Thanks.” I pocketed the card and shook his hand. “Thanks for everything.”

“Go and get some rest.” He smiled. “I’ll take care of your fellow journalists.”

“Thanks.”

He left us. I leaned against Colin and looked at my parents.

Mum hugged me once more. “You look exhausted, darling. Let Colin take you home.

We’ll come for a visit when you’ve rested.”

I loved my mum so much at that moment. I didn’t want the fuss of a family tea with

Ellen’s kids running riot and Brian looking bewildered and cross because his brother-in-law

had turned out to be gay.

“That would be great.” I kissed her cheek and hugged Dad. They hugged Colin and

let us walk away. The golf cart waited in the corridor. Normally, I would’ve preferred to

walk, but I wanted to get out of the airport, I wanted to get home. We climbed into the back.

Colin put his arm around my shoulder. I kept looking at him. I just couldn’t get my fill. I

couldn’t believe he was there.

“Are you okay?” He brushed my cheek with his finger.

“Yeah, all things considered, I’m okay. It’ll be nice to get home.”

“Not long now.”

The cart dropped us off at the lift for the short-term car park.

“I hope I can remember where I put the bloody car.” Colin shouldered my backpack

and led me through the echoing maze of aisles, muttering to himself. Finally, he took the key

out of his pocket and pressed the button. “Let’s see if this works.”

A car alarm peeped in response and headlights flashed two rows over. I started at the

sudden noise. My pulse raced for a few moments. I clung to Colin’s hand.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. The noise just made me jump. That’s all.”

“Come on, let’s get the hell out of here.”

I was more than happy to hurry, more than happy to slide into the passenger seat. Just

being in Colin’s car felt like home. I watched him take the phone from his pocket, turn it off

and throw it into the glove compartment.

“That’s it, boyo. No one’s going to bother us now.”

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I grinned at him. “That suits me just fine.”

He kissed my cheek and turned the key in the ignition. “Let’s go home.”

* * * *

The motorways weren’t too busy, apart from the usual kamikaze lorry drivers. I stared

out of the window, absorbing the green of late summer. The grass verges had never looked

more beautiful after months of stony scree. Every now and then, I stole a glance at Colin. He

gripped the steering wheel and leant forward, humming along to the music on the CD

player. The watery, late afternoon sun touched his skin with gold, glanced across his hair.

The scent of his cologne stole through the car. I rested my hand on his thigh, just to seek the

comfort of him.

“Nearly there.” He turned onto the slip road and glanced at his watch. “We should

just beat the rush hour.”

“Thank God for that.” I hadn’t slept much on the plane. I hadn’t eaten much, either. I

wasn’t sure if I was starving or exhausted. I leant back and closed my eyes. Colin’s hand

brushed my cheek.

“Don’t worry, I’m going to look after you.”

“Thank you.” I caught his hand and kissed it.

He withdrew his hand with a regretful sigh and changed gears as we got caught at a

traffic light. I looked out of the window once more, at the buildings clustered together, shops

and shoppers going about their daily business. I envied them their quiet, unruffled lives. It

was all so wonderfully normal. The humdrum, everyday, any-town street scene was

suddenly very beautiful to me.

“Here we are.” Colin turned the car in to the gravel drive and parked it next to mine.

“Home, sweet home.”

“Home, sweet home,” I echoed, climbing out of the car. I glanced up at the solid brick

façade, the sash windows and the drift of smoke from one of the chimneys. The curtains in

the downstairs flat twitched. Mr Goldstein grinned and waved.

I waved back. “They know?”

“It was all over the news.”

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I followed him up the stairs. The staircase was washed with the last of the afternoon

light. It fell on the worn carpet and its faded flowers. The stained glass window cast jewelled

reflections on the wall. The old house had never looked more like paradise.

The flat smelt of beeswax and bacon. It smelt of home. The living room was rich and

cool with soft green light. The trees, heavy with ripening chestnuts, threw swaying, dappled

shadows across the floor.

I set my backpack on the floor and looked at the room for a long time. I felt a fierce

rush of something indefinable, a mixture of relief, joy and fear. I had wanted this for so long

and, suddenly, it was real. It was no longer something I longed for, something I thought I’d

never see again. It was like eating fruitcake with too much icing after days of bread and

water.

“Evan?”

I wiped my eyes. They stung. I fumbled in my pocket for a tissue.

Colin put his arms around me and I fell to pieces.

“It’s all right,” he soothed. He led me to the settee. I collapsed against him and cried. I

couldn’t help it. All the fear, frustration, anger and exhaustion I’d held inside just spilled out.

I clung to Colin, curling my fingers into his shirt.

He moved his hands up and down my back, stroked the hair from my forehead,

brushed the tears from my cheeks. “You’re safe now. You’re home.”

I couldn’t stop. It had been so long since I’d been held and loved the way Colin held

me at that moment.

“I love you.” His lips brushed my cheeks, my forehead. “I’ll look after you. I’ll keep

you safe, I promise.”

I rested against him. My eyes were raw and scratchy. My face was sticky with tears. I

took a deep breath and wrapped my arms around his neck. “I love you.”

“That’s all that matters.” His breath was warm on my face. He cradled my head

against his chest and I closed my eyes, lost in his warmth, comforted by his touch.

We sat in silence for a long time, listening to the comforting, familiar whisper of traffic

and the steadily ticking clock in the hall. The sounds of home surrounded me. Colin stroked

my hair and I fell asleep in his arms—safe, warm and loved.

* * * *

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We had dinner from the chip shop around the corner and sat side by side on the settee

watching television. I don’t know what we watched, I just know that it was great to see the

BBC again, to listen to the bland, calming tones of the continuity announcer between

programmes. It was all so refreshingly normal. Colin kept his arm around my shoulders and I

didn’t want to move until just before nine when he stood up and turned off the television.

“I don’t think you want to see the news.”

I didn’t. I didn’t want to see my abbreviated press conference or hear the story that I

knew all too well. It was two in the morning, Pakistan time, and I needed to sleep. I wanted

the refuge of our bed, the silk duvet, the longed-for comfort of Colin’s head resting on my

pillow. We climbed into bed and Colin turned out the lamp. He’d opened the window and

the curtains shifted in the cool, damp breeze. I turned to face him.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m all right. I’m just tired.”

He kissed me, a sweet gentle kiss. “Then sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up. I’ll be

here when you need me.”

“You’re not going to work?”

He grinned. “Compassionate leave—they’ve let me have a month.”

“Really?” I offered up a silent prayer of thanks to the English Department at Oxford

University.

Colin shifted, moving closer. His arm draped heavily over my waist, his forehead

rested against mine. Warmth and scent enveloped me. I rested my hand on his chest, seeking

reassurance from the comforting reality of his beating heart and fell asleep to the soft drift of

his breath across my skin.

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Chapter Fifteen

I woke to the aroma of coffee—real coffee. Not hotel coffee, not airline coffee, real

coffee. Music filled the flat, the familiar sweep of piano and strings. Colin clattered about in

the kitchen, humming. He reappeared moments later, bearing two mugs of coffee.

“I bet you missed this.” He handed me a mug. The mattress shifted when he sat down

beside me.

The morning air was loud with birdsong and the constant hum of traffic. The scent of

rain was in the breeze. I sipped the coffee, French roast.

“Yes. I did.” I watched Colin drink his coffee. His hair tumbled over his forehead. I

reached over and pushed it out of his eyes. Just to be able to touch him, to feel the warmth of

his skin beneath my fingers.

“I can’t even begin to tell you how much I missed you.” He set his coffee down on the

bedside table.

I did the same.

He drew me into his arms.

I closed my eyes and listened to the steady, familiar rhythm of his heart. It was

something I’d never thought I’d hear again. “I missed you, too. I never stopped thinking

about you. I never stopped missing you.” I huddled closer. “All I had was a photograph.

They let me keep it. I still have it.” It was in the bottom of my backpack. Regardless of how

tattered it was, I was always going to keep it.

His fingers wandered through my hair. “God, Evan. I was so fucking scared. When

your parents phoned me and told me what happened…”

“They

did?”

“As soon as they were told. A police constable came to their door and told them.”

“Jesus.” I tried to imagine how they must’ve felt.

“Then, when I saw that video…” He tightened his arms around me and his breath

hitched. There were tears in his voice. “It was so hard to watch. I was torn between wanting

to see you and turning the television off because I couldn’t bear the sight of those guns. I

couldn’t bear the thought of what could happen to you.”

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“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I put you through that. I’m sorry I was so fucking stupid.”

“It’s not your fault. It was never your fault. You weren’t stupid.” Colin cupped my

chin. He kissed me—a long, languid kiss. His brushed my tongue with his and I leaned into

him. Feelings I’d managed to repress for months stirred inside me. I hadn’t even ventured a

wank while I was gone, afraid of what my captors would do if they found out. Now, I grew

hard. Lightning flickered across my skin, my nerves demanded release. I groaned and, in a

fever, kissed him back, winding my fingers through his hair. Our rapid breaths fell into sync.

I tore at his dressing gown, pushing it away, seeking the heat of his skin, the familiar trails. I

inhaled the scent of him, frantic for him.

“Jesus,” Colin gasped when I pulled him onto me. His hips ground into mine in a

dizzying, wild dance. “I’ve missed this. I’ve missed you.” He nipped at my throat, swept his

mouth across my shoulders, pausing only on a few favourite freckles before he moved on.

Every touch burned, every move needed resolution. I swept my hands along his back,

finding his arse. I held him close, wishing he could get beneath my skin, wishing I could

keep him there.

“I want you to make love to me.”

“Yes.” He returned his lips to mine, scorching me. He groped for the bedside table,

grappled with the drawer and pulled out the lube. “I want to be inside you.”

“Yes.” I watched him pour the lube onto his hands, work it in where it needed to go.

His fingers glistened with it when he reached down, down where I wanted him to be. I

shivered when he prepared the way, his cautious touch at odds with his rapid breathing. His

erection nudged against my leg, mine against his stomach. The ache became huge when he

eased my legs apart farther and moved forward.

I thought my body might have forgotten him, forgotten what it needed to do. For a

moment, I closed my eyes and braced myself. Colin nudged forward, stretching me. I’d not

forgotten anything. I was determined to remember everything. I looked at him, at the way

his eyes screwed shut when he slipped inside and withdrew. I reached for him.

He pushed in once more, with a groan. His arms trembled on either side of me. His

knuckles were white where he clutched the silk of the duvet. “Jesus.”

The pain was exquisite and brief. I adjusted to him. My muscles embraced him,

welcomed him and remembered him.

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“Faster, please.” I could barely gasp the words. I pulled him down, sought his lips.

Sought the heat of his skin against mine.

Colin growled and my back arched away from the bed when he plunged into me. I

seized his face between my hands, demanding his attention and his breath. I was close to the

edge already, breathing hard and fast while he moved with a swift, desperate rhythm. His

hair fell in snaking, black tendrils over his forehead and I soothed them back when I kissed

him. His eyes held mine, almost amber in the early morning light. I never tired of looking at

his face, the perpetual blue shadow of stubble, the generous curve of his bottom lip.

He grew inside me, filling me. I moved with him, matching the glide of my hips to his

until it seemed there was nothing between us. Colin quickened, pushing deeper. I pushed

back, keeping him close. I wanted to absorb him, absorb his warmth—everything. He

moaned and shuddered and, after one final, emphatic thrust, he threw his head back and

cried out. I followed, spilling onto my own skin.

He fell onto me and we clung to each other, breathless in the afterglow, both

trembling. I touched his hair with a shaking hand and cradled his head against my chest

while we both wept. It was a homecoming I hadn’t dared dream of. Apart from the music

from the other room and the hiss of passing cars, there was silence, punctuated by sighs.

Eventually, Colin lifted his head and looked at me.

“Welcome home.” He rolled off me, onto his side and touched his forehead to mine.

He spread his fingers across my cheeks, their tips whispering across my early morning

stubble. “Christ, Evan, I never thought this would ever happen.”

I wiped tears from his face, letting my touch linger. I kissed him, tasting the salt on his

skin. “Neither did I.” I kept kissing him, little, sipping kisses. He sighed and coiled his arms

around my neck. He sought my lips with his, warm, yielding. He wound his fingers through

my hair. I was lost once more, drawn right back in. Every touch left me weak and boneless,

wanting more.

The breeze shifted the curtains and rustled through the slowly yellowing chestnut

leaves. Dapples of light fluttered across the floor and the bed. Piano and strings faded to

from crescendo to diminuendo. Peace settled across the room. Colin sighed and shifted against

me. Skin whispered on skin.

“I’ll never leave you again,” I told him.

He grinned. “See that you don’t.”

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“I promise.” I didn’t want to spend another night away from him. “Can we spend the

rest of the day in bed?” It was too comfortable and it was all very right.

“We can spend the entire month in bed, if that’s what you want.”

“Yes, that’s what I want.”

Colin’s hand drifted across my chest. “Christ. Are you sure they fed you?”

The daylight wasn’t kind to what was left of me, bones and sinew held in place by

skin.

“They fed me, but it wasn’t much.” I hated looking at the wreckage.

“Bastards.” His voice shook. “Fucking bastards.” He traced a rib with a trembling

finger.

“Fucking dead bastards.” I caught his hand. “It’s all right. They’re dead. It’s over.

You’ll just have to feed me up, that’s all.”

“Don’t you worry.” He brushed my collarbone with his lips. “I intend to. I want my

Evan back. I want an arse I can squeeze.”

* * * *

“Have you ever cooked a roast dinner before?” I glanced at Colin where he sat, hands

curled around his coffee mug. Saturday morning sunlight slipped through the living room

windows.

“No. How about you?”

“Nope. I haven’t a fucking clue.”

“Why’d you tell your mum and dad you’d do a proper Sunday roast then?”

“I was distracted. You were unfastening my jeans at the time, as I recall.”

Colin laughed. “It can’t be that hard. Bung the meat in the oven with the frozen

Yorkshire puddings…boom, there you go.”

“Oh no, no frozen things. We’ve got to do this properly.”

“So you know how to make Yorkshire puddings?”

“No idea. There’s bound to be a recipe online.”

“Roast potatoes? Surely we can buy frozen ones, right?”

“No. How hard can it be to roast potatoes?” My idea of cooking had always been

quick or easy or preferably both. It was easy to chop up some meat and vegetables and throw

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them in the slow cooker with a slug of red wine. A Sunday roast seemed more like a military

operation.

“Couldn’t you just make a stew? I like your stews.”

“I like your Spanish tortillas, but it’s not Sunday lunch.”

Colin smiled over the rim of his coffee mug. “We’d better go shopping, then.”

Damn, shopping. It would be my first foray into the outside world. “I’d better make a

list.”

“I assume you’re doing all the cooking.”

“If you do the washing up.”

He leaned across the table and kissed me. He tasted of coffee. “All right. If you insist.”

I searched online for recipes, given that the only cookbooks Colin seemed to have

were for fancy foreign dishes. Mum and Dad weren’t into fancy things. It all seemed easy, if

the timings were right. I wrote out a list and printed off the recipes. I didn’t want to venture

out. I hadn’t had enough time hiding away from the world.

Saturday morning wasn’t the best time to visit the supermarket. Colin drove around

the car park three times before we could find a space.

I reached for Colin’s hand when we walked into the shop. The lines at the checkout

stretched back into crowded aisles. Small children ran about screaming and shouting. Three

old women chatted in the middle of the vegetable section. I squeezed Colin’s hand where it

rested on the trolley and closed my eyes for a moment. Apart from Heathrow, I hadn’t been

in a crowded place for months.

“Are you all right?”

I took a deep breath. Noise whirled around me, echoing, clamouring, bewildering. I

bit back an urge to tear out of the shop and seek refuge in the car.

“I’ll be all right.” No one had told me getting back to real life would do this to me. I’d

thought all I needed was rest. I supposed I needed more peace and quiet.

Colin slid his hand to the small of my back. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Why don’t you go and sit in the car? I can do the shopping on my own.”

“No, I have to do this.” I looked at him. “I need my life back.”

He smiled. “It won’t take long. At least we have a list, this time.”

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Our previous trips to the supermarket had been more meandering and impulsive,

leaving with bags full of impractical, naughty food—ready-to-eat meals, chocolate, cakes,

biscuits, cheeses.

Colin consulted the list and looked at where we were standing. “Vegetables first, since

we’re standing right in the middle of them.” He scooped up a bag of potatoes and dropped

them into the trolley. I picked up the carrots.

“Cabbage?” He made a face. “You wrote cabbage down?”

“What’s wrong with cabbage?” I liked red cabbage.

He shuddered. “You’re mad. I’m not having the flat reeking of cabbage. You don’t

seriously want cabbage, do you?”

“Nah, broccoli will do. To be honest, I just listed the first vegetable I could think of.

“Broccoli, I can live with.”

I sorted through the florets and handed him one.”Will this do?”

“It looks like broccoli to me. It’ll do.” He took a pen out of his pocket and crossed

three things off the list.

The sooner we got through it the better. I leaned close to him while we walked, curled

my hands around the trolley handle. He covered my right hand with his. “We’ll go home

and just have a nice, quiet day, all right?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m freaked out by all this. It’s a supermarket, for fuck’s

sake.”

He grabbed gravy mix from a shelf. “You just need more time.” His voice was gentle.

“I suppose so.” I added the other things we needed, soup, brown sauce. I couldn’t

even look at the jars and packets of curry mix.

Colin took the pen from behind his ear and crossed flour, milk and eggs from the list.

“Are you sure you can bake things? That’s a surprise to me.”

“I made a cake once.”

“When?”

“When I was fifteen, for Mum’s birthday.”

“That’s nice. It’s good to know you can bake.” A dimple darkened his stubble.

I wanted to kiss him. “I can do it. It’s easy.”

“All right.”

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We surveyed the meats. “Bloody hell, they’re not cheap.” I prodded a large joint of

beef.

“It’s a one-off.” Colin dropped it into the trolley. “Think of the leftovers—sandwiches,

cold beef with chips.”

Both of those sounded a lot less hassle than a bloody roast.

Colin paused by the ready meals. “Italian?”

“That’s fine.” Before Pakistan, it would’ve all been curries.

He tossed four meals into the trolley and added fresh soup and crème brûlées.

“You’re bad.” I looked at the wealth of food piled in the trolley. After months of near

starvation, it was almost an overload.

“Ooh, lemon curd tarts.” Colin grinned. “And trifle. That’ll do for afters, won’t it?”

I hadn’t even thought of pudding. Doing the bloody roast dinner would be hassle

enough. “Yup, that’ll be fine.”

He swept his hand over mine. “It’s all right, we’re nearly done.”

I managed a smile. The noise had faded to a dull roar. “Thank fuck for that.”

“Now for the most important items.” Colin threw crisps, crackers and biscuits onto

the pile then headed for the alcohol. “Wine, beer…all that good stuff.”

We lingered by the wines. It was quieter there. My lover was a picky bugger when it

came to wine. I left him to it, watching him while he held bottles, read labels and argued with

himself. It had always been that way. I think it was because he spent too much time sitting at

high table at college dinners. Some of the crusty old snobs he worked with had obviously

had an influence on him.

“This one?”

I glanced at the label. Australian and a merlot. “Great.”

He placed it in the basket and added two more bottles. “That’s it, we’re done.” He

grinned. “Let’s pay up and get the hell out of here before I murder somebody’s child.”

The checkout lines hadn’t got any smaller. Colin put his arm around my shoulder

while we waited. His hand caressed the side of my neck. The gesture earned us some funny

looks and some disapproving tuts. I didn’t give a fuck. I leaned against him and rested my

head on his shoulder. I needed the comfort of his presence to chase away the noise and the

chaos.

“I love you.” His breath was warm in my ear.

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“I love you right back.” The line inched forward. My heart sank when the woman in

front of us started sorting through a purse full of coupons.

“Fuck.”

“Yes, please.” Colin’s grin was infectious. “But I think we’d better wait until we get

home, don’t you?”

I laughed. The checkout girl smiled and the elderly couple behind us pursed their lips

in synchronised disapproval. I winked at them and began unloading the trolley.

The explosion of shattering glass came out of nowhere. Somewhere in the soft drinks

aisle, someone had dropped a bottle. I clutched the trolley and shook. My heart pounded

against my ribs, trying to escape. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.

“Evan?”

“I’ll be all right. That noise just caught me off guard.” I forced myself to open my eyes,

to look at Colin. His eyes were full of worry.

I took another breath and tried to open my tightening airway. My hands, suddenly

cold and damp with perspiration, slid from the plastic handle of the trolley. Something as

natural as breathing became a conscious, difficult effort.

One…two…three…breathe…one…two…three…

“Are you sure?” Colin rubbed my back. I don’t think I’d ever seen him look so

frightened.

I nodded. My hands shook. My breathing slowly returned.

“Christ, you scared me.” His hand trembled over mine. His face was white.

“I’m sorry.” I started retrieving things from the trolley once more. “I don’t know what

the fuck happened.”

He rested his forehead against my shoulder. The couple behind us made little

disgusted noises.

“Are you all right, love?” This was the checkout girl.

“I’m fine now. Thanks.” I smiled at her. “That noise made me jump a bit, that’s all.”

She eyed me doubtfully as she started feeding things through the checkout. “If you’re

sure.”

“Yes.” I glared at the couple.

We packed the groceries, loaded them back into the trolley and escaped out into the

fresh air. When we reached the car, I leaned on it and breathed deeply, grabbing lungfuls of

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damp autumn air. It smelt of wet soil and wood smoke. It smelt of home. A cool breeze

whispered across the car park. Colin rubbed my back, still shaken.

“You’d better see a doctor. I’m taking you as soon as we can get an appointment.”

“I’m sure it was a one-off.”

“I don’t bloody care. We’re going to the doctor’s.” Each word was carefully

enunciated. I knew that tone.

“All right.” I gave in.

“Good.” He kissed me. His hands were warm on my face. It’s amazing what four and

a half months of hell can do to shatter a person’s inhibitions.

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Chapter Sixteen

“So what do I do now?” I held the pot with the drained potatoes and looked at Colin

while he leaned against the kitchen counter.

He consulted the recipe. “Hold the lid on and shake the pot.”

I did this.

“Now add the potatoes to the pan with the hot oil.”

“Christ, what a performance.” I carefully placed the potatoes in the roasting pan. The

beef was already done. It was resting on the counter, as recommended by the recipe. Let the

meat rest…who knew?

I opened the oven door and a blast of hot air filled the kitchen. I put the potatoes in,

alongside the Yorkshire puddings.

“You have to turn them halfway through.”

“Is that it? Have I done it all?”

Colin glanced at the cooker. The vegetables were already prepared and in the pans,

waiting. The gravy was already made. “Yes, that’s it.”

“Thank fuck for that.” I didn’t know how my mother did this every bloody Sunday.

This one attempt had just about killed me.

Colin poured out two glasses of wine and we retreated to the settee. He’d opened a

window earlier. The living room was a cool, grey refuge from the furnace heat of the kitchen

and the rain outside. The small table had already been set and there was nothing much left to

do.

“Just think of the sandwiches.” He rested against me, his head on my shoulder. Music

filled the room and, more importantly, peace.

“Yup, sandwiches…the best bit.”

“Don’t forget leftover Yorkshire puddings with raspberry jam. Mum always used to

give us that.”

“We never had any leftovers. Ellen always ate them all.” I toyed with his hair. All the

little things I’d missed, I was finally able to enjoy. I certainly wasn’t going to take them for

granted again.

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“Greedy cow.”

“Yeah, she was.” I closed my eyes, breathed in the scent of him. I wished we had more

time but the slamming of car doors on the drive below heralded Mum and Dad’s arrival.

“I guess they’re here.” Colin sat up and ran his hand through his hair. “As much as I

love your parents, I hope they don’t stay too long.”

I kissed him. “Same here.” I’d only been home a handful of days, but I couldn’t deny

my own parents. I heard them talking as they climbed the stairs.

Colin’s hand trailed away from my neck. “Don’t worry. We have plenty of time.”

“Yes, and I want to be selfish with all of it.” I opened the door and smiled.

“Oh, darling.” Mum swept me up into a fierce hug before she was even over the

threshold. “It’s so lovely to see you, properly.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, inhaling the familiar scent of her perfume, the smell of

childhood.

She stood back, her eyes very bright. “You’re too thin. You need feeding up.”

“We’re working on that,” Colin said.

“Well, something smells good.” Dad hugged me.

“Roast beef and all the trimmings.” I sank onto the settee. Mum sat beside me, Dad on

a chair, Colin on the arm of the settee, resting his hand on my shoulder. I loved that he was

always within reach.

“Evan’s done all the cooking.” A subtle caress, a tightening of a finger. God, he made

me want to weep. “So we’re all victims of his ghastly experiments.”

“You did everything? Yorkshire puddings? Roast potatoes? The lot?”

“Yes, and nothing frozen either, in spite of Colin’s attempts to persuade me

otherwise.”

Mum giggled and shook her head. “You two.”

I stood up. “I’d better turn these potatoes and check the puddings.”

“I’ll get drinks. Wine?”

Colin followed me into the kitchen, closed the door and backed me against the

refrigerator. “Christ, I want to be selfish with you.” He devoured my mouth with his.

I shivered when he swept his hands to my waist, pulling me close. I wound my arms

around him and kissed him back. His erection pressed against mine.

“When your parents have gone…” he gasped, his breath hot on my face.

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I fought for breath, for self-control. “Yes.” I kissed him again and tasted wine on his

lips.

“You’d better turn those bloody potatoes, then. The sooner we eat, the sooner they’ll

leave.” He pulled away and turned to the sink. He turned on the cold water tap, ran his

hands beneath the water and splashed his face with it.

I did the same, still shaken. The icy water brought me back to the warm kitchen, the

aroma of roasting potatoes.

“Jesus, Evan.” Colin’s hand drifted across my crotch before he reached for the wine.

“You might want to find an apron or something.” His grin was devilish.

“Sod.” I concentrated on the potatoes, bracing myself for the volcanic heat from the

oven.

“Randy bastard.” He nipped at my ear.

“You started it.”

“You made me.” The cork popped. Glasses clinked together on the countertop.

“How do you reckon that?” I turned the potatoes.

“You looked at me. That was enough.”

“You have no willpower.” I put the potatoes back in the oven. I turned the rings on

underneath the vegetables.

“No, I haven’t. Not where you’re concerned. Not after ten years of self-restraint.” He

poured wine into the glasses. The merlot glinted like garnets under the kitchen spotlight. The

scent of blackcurrants drifted across the room.

I kissed the back of Colin’s neck, brushing at a wayward curl. “Then I owe you at least

another ten years.”

He leaned against me and closed his eyes. “I reckon you owe me a lifetime.”

“I can do that.”

* * * *

“That was lovely.” Mum set her spoon down in the empty pudding dish. “I can’t

believe you cooked all this.”

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I could. I was knackered. “Believe it, Mum.” I leant back in my chair. Colin’s leg

brushed against mine and I was desperate with wanting him, desperate enough to dismiss

exhaustion.

“More wine?” Colin held up the bottle.

Dad waved his hand, Mum held out her glass. “Just a drop more, please, love.” She

looked at me, suddenly serious. “How are you doing, really?”

“I’m all right. I’ve only been back five days. I’m still tired, still getting used to being

safe and comfortable again.”

She leaned across the table and squeezed my hand. “I know, love. It can’t be easy for

you.”

“If it wasn’t for Colin…” Credit where credit was due. “It would be a damn sight

harder. We’re managing.”

“I promise I’ll look after him.” Colin smiled. “It’s not easy. He’s very demanding,

wanting his grapes peeled and all, but I’ll manage.”

My father laughed. “He always was a spoilt little brat.”

Colin rested his hand on my thigh.

I bit my lip and crossed my legs. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him, at the open

collar of his shirt.

Talk turned to family gossip. Mum was full of chatter about things that had happened

while I was, in her words, ‘away’. I was grateful I didn’t have to make much effort towards

the conversation, just nodding where I needed to, shaking my head in other places. Finally,

after an hour or so, Dad nudged her. “Darling, we should go. Poor Evan looks like he’s about

ready to drop.”

“Oh, heavens, yes. We should.” She kissed my cheek. “I’m so sorry, love. I just got

carried away.”

“It’s all right, Mum.” I glanced at the clock. It was only three but I knew Dad well

enough to know he wanted to be back home before dark. He hated motorway driving at the

best of times.

We walked them down to the front door, stood in the porch and watched them leave,

waving until they disappeared beyond the hedge onto the road.

“That’s that, then.” Colin slipped his arm around my waist. “It was good.”

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“Yes.” I watched the rain drip from the eaves. “It was but I’m glad it’s over. I feel as

guilty as hell but I’m just not ready for company.”

“I know.” He brushed my cheek with his lips. We stood for a while and listened to the

rain whispering on the bushes and the gravel. I stared at the chestnut trees, their leaves

turning yellow. I loved the shelter they gave the place, a green and gold barrier between us

and the outside world. The damp breeze move through Colin’s hair and I could’ve stood

there and looked at him forever.

“Let’s get back upstairs. I want to get this washing up done and out of the way.” He

took my hand and led me back to the flat. “Put your feet up and rest.”

“No, I’ll help.” The sooner it was done, the better.

He grinned. “Fine, you wash and I’ll dry.”

We stood side by side at the kitchen sink—me up to my elbows in soap bubbles, Colin

drying the dishes between nuzzling my throat and putting them away. By the time the last

pot was stacked, and the leftovers wrapped up and stowed away, all I wanted to do was

sleep. I fought a yawn and leaned on the counter.

“It was too much.” Colin touched my face. “Come with me.”

He took me back into the living room, plumped up the cushions on the settee and

placed them against the arm. “Lie down, I’ll be back.”

It was easy to comply. I lay back and listened to the music.

“Here.” He returned, minus everything but his shorts and carrying the duvet. He sat

on the edge of the settee and undressed me. “You need to rest. Now budge over.”

I did, as far as I could go.

He edged on beside me and pulled the duvet up to cover us both. “How’s that?”

“Bloody marvellous.” I closed my eyes when he gathered me up. There was nothing

but music and the soft murmur of rain against the windows.

Colin’s legs slid over mine. I loved the solidity of him, that he was finally real after

months of longing, frustration and fear. He kissed my eyelids, my forehead and my lips. “I

love this. I love being here with you just like this.”

“So do I.” I relaxed against him, inhaling the scent of his skin, as familiar and as

comforting to me as home. I fell asleep, surrounded by his warmth, by his love and never

wanted to leave.

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* * * *

The doctor put his stethoscope on the desk and pinched the bridge of his nose

between thumb and forefinger. “So, Saturday was the first time it happened?”

“Yes.” I fastened my shirt. I’ve never had allergies. I’ve never had asthma.”

“You heard a loud noise and that’s what set it off?”

“Yes.”

He leant back in his chair, looked at my forms then looked at me. “You’ve mentioned

on the form that you recently returned from Pakistan.”

I nodded. I didn’t even want to acknowledge that fact out loud. I glanced at Colin. He

leant forward in his chair in the corner, just dying to say something.

“How long were you there?”

“Four and a half months.”

He looked at me again, his eyes suddenly sharp. “Were you ill at all while you were

there?”

“Apart from the trots, not really.” I hated that I was going to have to tell him. I took a

deep breath. “It wasn’t my intention to stay there for that long. I was…err…detained.”

The doctor raised an eyebrow. “Prison?”

Colin shifted in the chair. “Do you want me to tell him?”

The doctor glanced at Colin. “Mr Williams?”

“Evan was kidnapped and held hostage.”

“Ah…that’s why you look familiar.” The weary look was replaced by interest. “That’s

why you’re so bloody thin. That makes it easier.”

“Easier for what?” I asked.

“To figure out what’s wrong. Loud, sudden noise…the symptoms you’ve described.

You had a panic attack, Mr Harrison.”

“Panic

attack?”

“Understandable, given the circumstances.”

I tucked my shirt back into my jeans. “So what do I do?”

“I could give you medication but it’s only one attack. It might never happen again. I

don’t like to give out prescriptions if there are other ways of dealing with it. You would be

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better off looking into some relaxation techniques, perhaps get a tape, or take up yoga. Deep

breathing exercises can help, too. The other thing you need to do is give up caffeine.”

Fuck that.

“That’s

it?”

“For the moment. But, if you have more, if they start becoming more frequent, then

come and see me again. We’ll see what we can do. I really think it’s best to try the other

things first and see if they work.”

I was all for that. I didn’t much fancy drugs, either. I stood up and retrieved my shoes.

He handed me a scrap of paper with a couple of website addresses scrawled on it. “You

might find something here on relaxation. Give it a try, Mr Harrison.”

“I will, I promise.”

“I’ll see that he does.” Colin handed me my jacket.

“Good luck and make another appointment if the attacks become more frequent.”

“Yeah, I will. Thanks.” I shook his hand and followed Colin out of the office.

He took my hand as we walked across the car park. “Are you all right? You’re a bit

quiet.”

I let my fingers wind through his. “I’m okay. I’m just a bit freaked out by the idea that

I had a panic attack.”

“Hopefully it was a one-off.”

“I hope so, I don’t much fancy the idea of giving up coffee.”

“I don’t much fancy the idea of you in the morning without coffee.”

I laughed and, for the moment, everything seemed just fine.

* * * *

“We’re out of eggs. Fancy a walk to the corner shop?”

I glanced out of the window, where the brisk wind hurled dead leaves along the road.

It was a good day for staying inside but, after two weeks, I couldn’t stay indoors forever.

“Yeah, why not?”

We hurried out onto the drive, huddled up against the cold. Clouds, shredded by the

wind, hurried across a pale, watery sky.

“Fuck, it’s cold.” Colin shoved his hands into his pockets.

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“Yes.” I lifted my head. The morning smelt of damp soil and rotting leaves. Smoke

was driven sideways from chimneys. It was beautiful. I loved the fact winter was on the way.

The shop was warm. A few schoolchildren lingered by the sweets, arguing over

whether to buy chocolate or fruit gums. Colin found a carton of eggs and grabbed a

newspaper. I followed him to the counter.

“Ah, Mr Harrison, Mr Williams, it’s good to see you both.” Mr Hussain’s voice was

like a slap. It was his accent—it was all too familiar. A young man with a full beard talking

about restaurants in Sparkbrook. I was back in that hut, sitting on the dirt floor in my little

patch of sunlight. Christ, was it ever going to let me go?

I stared at him and everything slammed to a halt. I span on my heels and ran out of

the shop, seeking fresh air, seeking the cold. I collapsed against the wall and fought a rising

wall of darkness. All around me, life carried on. The kids left the shop with their sweets,

skirting the ice-cream sign, which flapped and creaked in the rising wind. I reached back for

the wall and scraped my fingertips across the rough brick, needing the pain, needing

something to bring me back from that other place.

Mr Hussain wasn’t even from Pakistan but that sing-song accent and his brown skin

were enough. Shit. Even after two weeks, I still wasn’t over it. Still wasn’t free of it. I closed

my eyes and filled my lungs with cold, damp air. There was rain in the wind, more bloody

rain. I wanted to run home, to crawl into bed and stay there. I still wasn’t ready for this, for

being in the real world.

“Evan?” Colin, clutching the eggs, touched my arm. “What’s wrong?”

I shook my head, dashed tears from my eyes. “Why can’t I forget?”

His eyes were sad, clouded with worry. “Because what happened to you was fucking

awful, that’s why. It’s not going to disappear overnight.”

I swallowed, trembled and clung to the wall. “I wish it bloody would.” The words

caught in my throat.

“I know.” Colin curled his hand around my neck and kissed my cheek. “I suppose

we’ll just have to be patient.”

I collapsed into his arms, clutched his coat, sought refuge. I wanted to crawl beneath

his skin and stay there. I wanted sanctuary. “Yeah.”

“Let’s go home.” His breath was warm on my skin. “Let me look after you.” He put

his arm around my waist. “Can you walk?”

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My legs trembled. I leaned against him, put one foot carefully in front of the other.

“Yes…just.” It was another panic attack, it had to be.

We made our way along the pavement. It became easier to walk with each step and

the tremors eventually stopped. It was a relief to make it back to the flat. I collapsed onto the

settee and stared at my trembling hands.

“Jesus.” Colin knelt in front of me and held my hands between his own. “You’re

scaring the crap out of me.”

“Yeah, I’m not too chuffed at the moment, either.” I rested my forehead against his. “I

really hoped what happened in the supermarket was a one-off.” I didn’t want medication

and counselling. I just wanted my life back.

“So did I.” He let go of my hands and kissed me. “Do you think you should see the

doctor again?”

“I don’t want to. Let’s see how it goes, eh?”

“I don’t know.” Colin slid onto the settee beside me. “I’m just worried about when I

go back to work. What if something happens…?”

“I’ll make you a promise. If it happens again in the next couple of weeks, I’ll go back

to the doctor. How’s that?”

He fell back against the cushions, taking me with him. “That’ll do…for now.” He drew

my head down onto his shoulder. “I think it’s best I just keep you locked in here for the next

fortnight.”

I shifted, threw my arm across his waist and listened to the steady, even whisper of

his breathing. “That sounds fine to me.” I would’ve happily spent the rest of my life

cocooned in the flat, sheltered by his arms. It scared me how much I needed him.

His lips drifted across my forehead. I closed my eyes and sought sanctuary with him.

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Chapter Seventeen

The morning sun hurt my eyes. I’d been so long in that dark, dank room that, when

they dragged me out of the hut, needles of light blinded me. I looked down at the dirt and let

them drag me to the chair. The banner was there once more with its slogans. They all stood in

front of it, holding their guns. All I could see were their eyes.

Someone shoved me into the chair. Half a dozen guns were suddenly trained at my

throat. I stared at the cameraman, thinking of good things, of Colin, of home, of the summer I

was missing. I waited for the usual invective and I wasn’t disappointed. One of the men read

from a piece of paper, his voice growing angrier as he read. The others joined in, shouting

worthy slogans. All I understood was ‘Allah’. Their yelling became more frenzied, echoing

through the narrow valley. A flock of birds scattered, screeching, into the morning sky.

I cried out when someone grabbed my hair and wrenched my head back. The cold,

unyielding blade of a knife nicked my skin.

This was it. My luck had run out.

There was a sudden silence. I closed my eyes, whispered my farewells, and screamed

when the blade sliced across my throat.

I clawed my way out of the tangle of bedclothes, still screaming.

“Evan…shush, Evan.” Colin’s voice shook. Warm hands reached me through the

dark. “It’s just a dream, that’s all.”

I reached for him, reached for safety. My pulse pounded in my ears in a frantic drum

beat.

I found him, wrapped my arms around his neck and trembled.

“It’s all right.” He held me, rocked me back and forth. “It’s all right. It was a dream.

You’re here, with me. You’re safe.”

I clung to him, still too shaken to speak. The knife hurt. I felt the terrible echo of its

pain. But Colin’s closeness was real, the slow, steady circling of his hand on my skin,

hypnotic, calming. Eventually, my breathing slowed and I relaxed against him. His heart

beat beneath my cheek, like a lullaby.

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He reached for the duvet, pulled it over us, until I was cocooned in warmth. “I’ll look

after you. I’ll keep you safe, I promise.”

“I know.” I couldn’t have managed on my own, without him. My eyes stung.

His fingers brushed my cheek. “Do you feel better now?

I closed my eyes, breathed in the scent of him. “Yes.”

“What the hell are we going to do with you?”

“I don’t know. Shoot me?”

He laughed. His arm tightened around me. “I don’t think so.”

“Good, glad to hear it.”

“Try to sleep.” Colin settled back into the pillows, holding on to me. “I won’t leave

you.”

“Thanks.” I smothered a yawn, the nightmare forgotten. “I love you.”

“And so you should.” He kissed my forehead.

* * * *

“How are you doing?” John’s voice crackled a bit on the line. I heard the distant blare

of a car horn, a whispered ‘fuck’. I guessed he was driving somewhere.

“I’m getting there.” I glanced over at Colin, who still slept, stretched on his stomach,

his head on my pillow. The morning had a chill to it, so I covered him with the duvet and

watched him sleep.

“Well, it’s only been three weeks. It’s to be expected. Don’t feel like you have to rush

back to work, because you don’t. I just wanted to make sure you were all right, and ask if

there was anything you need.”

I hadn’t even thought of work or the long piece I would eventually have to write—the

‘inside story’. “Nah, Colin’s looking after me.” John didn’t need to know about the

nightmares or the panic attacks. “But thanks for asking.” God, I wanted to kiss Colin’s

shoulder, wake him, make love to him.

“Just give me a call if you need anything.”

“Thanks, I will.”

“Look after yourself, mate.”

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The line went dead. I put the phone back on the bedside table, leaned over and kissed

Colin’s shoulder. My dick twitched with wanting him. He murmured in his sleep, his hand

curled into the pillow. Cold autumn sunlight slipped through a gap in the curtains and fell

across the bed, finding deep shadows in the folds and valleys in the rumpled covers. The

central heating kicked on with a soft whumph and the clock in the hall struck seven. Colin

wasn’t stirring. It didn’t matter. We had all day, nowhere we needed to be. I was just happy

to get through another night without nightmares, another day without a panic attack. I tried

not to think about Colin returning to work. It wasn’t as if he would be miles or days away,

but I was finding it hard to imagine what I would do with the days, with the hours of his

absence. I wasn’t ready to write, I certainly wasn’t ready to work. Mind, there was a flat full

of books and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d read something that wasn’t for research.

I’d find something to do.

“Penny for them.” Colin’s voice was a sleepy purr. His hand drifted across my face.

“John just phoned to see how I was. He told me not to hurry or anything.”

“Good.”

“I was just trying to figure out what to do with myself when you go back to work.”

He grinned. “I’ll get you a French maid’s costume, you can cook and clean and greet

me at the end of the day with my pipe and slippers.”

“Bastard.” I kissed the corner of his mouth, pushed the tumble of hair from his face.

He rolled onto his back and pulled me with him. I rested on top of him, wrestling with

a spectacular early-morning boner.

“My, my, somebody’s a randy git this morning.” He swept his hands down my back.

His hips shifted subtly beneath me.

“That would be me.” I nipped at his neck, his shoulder. I loved the sweet, milky, early

morning scent of him and the furnace warmth that comes from a night beneath a down-filled

duvet.

“I might have to do something about that.”

“I’d appreciate it.” The ache was huge and sudden.

His lips swept across mine, his tongue demanded entrance. “No problem.”

When he began to move beneath me, I forgot about nightmares and fear. I forgot

about everything but Colin. I prayed it would always be that way.

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* * * *

The flat was quiet, the only sound the whisper of the rain against the windows.

Supper was in the slow cooker, the laundry done and the furniture dusted. I wasn’t used to

domesticity but I found it a useful way of hiding away, pretending I was somewhere else in

my head. With that done, I raided Colin’s bookshelves and dithered between Les Misérables

and War and Peace. I couldn’t be arsed to wrestle with Russian patronymics so I settled on the

former. Stretched out on the settee, I remembered, one hundred pages or so in, why I’d never

got round to finishing it the first time. I’d never been one for afternoon naps but I wanted one

now. Hugo wasn’t helping. I let the book drop and rested against the cushions. I’d made it

through three weeks on my own and thought I was doing pretty damn well. The flat had

never been cleaner and Colin’s homecomings were memorable and always ended in bed.

Fuck.

I was back in that place again. This time there was silence, apart from the distant,

dying-man’s croak of a raven. A cold draught swirled around the room. I huddled in my

corner with the filthy, threadbare blanket around me. It was one of those days when the lack

of clean water got to me. Things crawled in my beard and beneath my clothes. All the

scratching in the world couldn’t get rid of the constant itch. I raked my skin, feeling like a

fucking monkey while I scratched and writhed and wished I was dead. Months of dirt and

filth were ingrained in my skin, darkening the creases on my palms. I stank and my hair was

heavy with grease. I just wanted to crawl out of my own skin.

The feeling of being caked in filth was still with me when I woke. In a half daze I

stumbled into the bathroom, scratching at itches that didn’t exist, tugging with frustration at

an invisible beard. I turned on the shower, wrenched my clothes off and stepped into the

torrent of hot water. I grabbed the soap, covered myself with it, scrubbed it into my skin. I

couldn’t get rid of the itch, no matter how hard I scrubbed and scraped at the dirt with my

nails. Sobbing, I groped for the nail brush and rubbed at my skin, rubbed at the itching,

crawling things. It just wouldn’t go. It was part of me. It marked me. I raked the brush across

my hands, trying to get at the dirt, but it wouldn’t go. It was under the skin, permanent and

black like a tattoo—a constant reminder of where I’d been, what I’d lost.

I slumped back against the tiles, scrubbing and sobbing.

“Christ, Evan.” Colin flung the shower curtain back. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m trying to get clean. I can’t do it. It won’t stop itching. I can’t stand the stink.”

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“You don’t stink. You’re not dirty.” He kicked his shoes away and stepped into the

shower. “Give me that bloody brush.” He took it and hurled it across the bathroom floor.

“I am dirty. Look at me.” I showed him my hands, showed him the dirt ingrained

there. “I can’t get rid of it.”

“Oh, Jesus.” His voice was quiet, lost. “Jesus, Evan. What the fuck did those bastards

do to you?” He drew me into his arms and held me, stroking my hair while I sobbed against

his soaking wet shirt. We dropped to the tiles together and he wrapped himself around me,

holding me while I cried. His hands pushed at my hair, pushed it away from my face. “Look

at me, please.”

I did. His eyes were full of pain and bewilderment. His wet clothes clung to his skin.

The water plastered his hair to his face. I hurt more for him at that moment than I did for

myself. It dragged me out of my nightmare.

“You’re not dirty.” He stroked my face, took my hands and kissed the red-raw palms.

“You’re beautiful. You’ve always been beautiful, you’ll always be beautiful. You’ll always be

all I ever want. Please, Evan, let’s get out of this damned shower.” He rose and pulled me to

my feet. He turned the water off and led me out of the shower.

“Here.” Colin wrapped a towel around me and struggled out of his wet clothes,

tossing them into the bath tub. He dried me off with gentle hands, in silence, before drying

himself. I couldn’t move. All I could do was watch him, lost and not knowing what to say or

do.

“Come with me.” He led me into the living room and knelt before the fire, lighting it.

The rolled up pieces of newspaper flickered to life and flames reached into the tangle of

kindling and logs, blazing and dancing.

“Wait here.” He disappeared into the bedroom and returned with the duvet. “Let’s get

warm, eh?” He kept his voice low, even.

“Yes.” I finally realised I was naked and cold.

Colin sat behind me, eased me between his legs and wrapped the duvet around us

both. I leaned against him while he rested his chin on my shoulder. His cheek rested against

mine. “I think you need to see the doctor again, boyo.”

Bloody doctors, who would probably insist on therapy or counselling and getting all

touchy-feely with everything. I was too tired to argue. I closed my eyes. “All right. I will.”

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“Good.” He kissed the back of my neck, the freckles—always the freckles. “I want my

old Evan back. I miss him.”

I swallowed at the sudden tightness in my throat. “I miss him, too.” I wasn’t sure a

new-and-improved, drugged-up Evan would be much better. I just wasn’t sure a doctor was

the right way to go. I held my tongue. If it made Colin happy, I would do it. I hated the fact I

scared him, I hated how he trembled when he held me, half afraid I’d crack up again. I owed

him so much.

We sat in silence as night darkened the room, leaving only the firelight and the

shadows. The wind hurled rain against the windows. At least it was Thursday and we had

the three-day weekend in front of us. The aroma of beef bourguignon drifted out of the

kitchen. Colin’s heartbeat against my back, the warmth of his skin, was a balm no doctor

could ever prescribe. Finally, the last shreds of the nightmare let go.

“I’m sorry I scared you. I dreamt I was back there. I guess I was still there when I got

into the shower.”

“You weren’t in your head, that’s for sure.” Colin trailed his lips along my shoulders

once more—soft, warm, gentle. In spite of everything, I wanted him.

“I’ll make an appointment tomorrow, I promise.”

“Yes, you will, or I’ll do it for you.” He nipped at my earlobe. His erection nudged at

my back, my own grew with every kiss, every touch. “In the meantime, you’ll have to make

do with the Patented Colin Williams Home Remedy for Evan Harrison Freakouts.”

I laughed and twisted in his arms to face him. “I can’t imagine what that means.”

“Really? Would you like me to show you?”

I glanced down at his dick. The tip glistened in the flickering, amber light. “I think I

have a pretty good idea.”

He rose in one swift movement and pulled me to my feet, keeping the duvet around

us. “You’ll have to come into the bedroom so I can show you how it’s done. How I can make

you better.”

We fell onto the bed. Colin eased me back onto the tumbled bank of pillows, threw the

duvet around us so we were enveloped in a dark, warm cave of silk. His lips trailed across

my skin, pausing at my nipples where he sucked, licked, teased. I lost my fingers in his hair,

whimpered when he moved lower. His tongue traced idle patterns across my skin, flickered

across the top of my dick.

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“Bloody hell.” A shock, like lightning, ran through me. My hips lifted from the bed

and he slid his hands beneath them before he took me in his mouth. Christ, the things he

could do with those beautiful lips, that wide generous mouth, a bottom lip like a silk

cushion.

“Hush, boyo.” He ran his tongue the full length of me and returned to my mouth. I

tasted myself on his lips, on his tongue when he coiled it around mine. His hands continued

their own dance, sliding beneath me, clutching me, gliding between us, reaching for me

before drawing away, reaching for the bedside drawer.

The lube was cool on my penis, though not cool enough to relieve the vast ache that

threatened to explode when Colin moved his hand up and down, before lubing himself.

“This is the best cure of all,” he whispered as he lowered himself carefully onto me.

“I’ll heal us both.” He sought my hands, curled his fingers through mine and moved up and

down with the ease and grace of a trapeze artist. I loved to watch his face, the way his lips

parted and his eyes grew misty, distant, while he concentrated on the task at hand. I freed

one hand, reached up and touched his face, caressed it, brushing my thumb across his

cheekbone. He quickened, gasping, moaning. His head dropped, hair tumbled around his

face. He lifted, paused and plunged down one last time. I gave way, crying out, reaching for

him when he came and fell onto me, breathless.

“Yes,” I gasped. “As cures go, it’s a bloody spectacular one.”

* * * *

The doctor’s cure was far less spectacular. I sat on a chair and watched him scribble

out a prescription form in that relentlessly illegible scrawl that seemed to be a requirement

before graduating medical school.

He handed me the slip. “It’s an antidepressant. You’ve had a bad experience, Mr

Harrison. Everything points to PTSD. It will get better but sometimes you have to help things

along.”

I stared at him. “PTSD? Really?” I suppose I should’ve known. I’d been around long

enough to know soldiers weren’t the only ones who had to deal with it.

“That’s my view. It’s not my area of expertise, mind.”

“Jesus.” I puffed out my cheeks and exhaled slowly. It made sense.

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“So these pills will help? Do they have side effects?”

“They can do. They all do. Some worse than others. If you feel suicidal, depressed,

pissed off, restless, or you can’t sleep, phone me right away. As it is, I’ll want to see you in a

couple of weeks to see how you’re getting on.” He sighed and adjusted his glasses. “I won’t

lie to you. I hate prescribing these things but we have to try. I think you’ve been through

enough, you don’t need any more issues. You should really think about counselling, you

know.”

“I know.” I glanced past him, out of the window, out at the ordinary world full of

people with nice, quiet, ordinary lives. “I just don’t feel ready for it. I don’t want to talk the

way a counsellor is going to want me to talk. I’m not ready to talk about what happened.”

The doctor sighed. “I know. It’s not unusual to feel this way. Just keep it in mind, Mr

Harrison. You may think you can deal with it, that your partner can deal with it, but you’ve

been through a lot. People aren’t meant to go through what you went through. It leaves

scars.”

“Let’s just try the drugs first, please?”

“All right but if you feel like things are getting on top of you, let me know.”

I slid the prescription into my pocket. “Thanks.” At least Colin would be happy that

I’d seen the doctor and the doctor had given me something to help. I rose and shook his

hand.

“Don’t forget, call me if you feel worse.”

“I will.”

When I got home, I drew the curtains and turned on the lamps to fight off the leaden

gloom of the November afternoon. I read the list of side effects, not at all impressed by the

prospect of dry mouth, stomach pain, dizziness, fatigue, headaches and, worst of all,

decreased sex drive.

Fuck.

I poured some water and took a pill. They were only possible side effects after all.

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Chapter Eighteen

“I’m sorry.” I sighed and stared up at the ceiling.

Colin rolled over and did the same. “It’s all right. You did say it might happen.”

“I hoped it wouldn’t.” I turned to face him, watched his face in the soft lamplight. “I

really hoped it wouldn’t.”

“It doesn’t matter.” He smiled and that was my absolution. “Didn’t the doctor say you

only had to take them for a little while?”

“Yeah.” It had only been two weeks, hadn’t taken long for the fucking side effects to

kick in. Oh yes, I was one of the lucky ones—nausea, stomach pain, headaches, short fuse. I

was beginning to think the panic attacks and nightmares were better.

Colin cupped my chin. His lips were soft on mine. “Don’t worry, I can wait. You’ll

always be worth the wait.”

“Thank you.” I huddled close to him, seeking warmth in the chill of the November

night. Outside, a late autumn gale hurled rain against the window. It was a good night for

staying in bed, regardless of bloody erectile dysfunction.

“As long as you’re here, with me.” He gathered me up. “That’s all that matters.”

I sometimes wondered what I’d done to deserve Colin. This was one of those times. I

felt like crying. Instead, I took a deep breath, wrapped my arm around his waist and closed

my eyes. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I spoil you rotten and you know it.”

“I’m a better cook than you.”

“Jeesh, one roast beef dinner and you think you’re Gordon bloody Ramsay.”

“You haven’t left a scrap on your plate since I moved in.”

He laughed. “All right, all right, you’re a good cook. Is that what you wanted to

hear?”

“Yes. It’ll do for starters.”

“Conceited

arse.”

“Nice

arse.”

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“Yes, that too. Very nice arse.” He slid his hand to cup said arse and caress it. “I

always thought you had a nice arse.”

“So you secretly admired it when we lived together before?”

“Oh yes. Nice arse and freckles. It was absolute torment.”

“Your arse isn’t bad, either.” It wasn’t. I loved it when he slept on his stomach, the

bedclothes fallen back to reveal the long sweep of his back and the smooth, gentle curve of

his buttocks. I loved his leanness. I loved my dark-haired, dark-eyed Botticelli angel with the

perpetual stubble and the bird’s-wing eyebrows. I just felt like shite that it had taken me ten

years to realise it.

“Glad you recognise that.” His fingers drifted through my hair.

“Oh yes.” I kissed his throat, inhaled the scent of his cologne and, beneath it, his skin.

He leaned over, turned out the lamp and curled up around me in the wintry dark.

“Just promise me this.” His breath was warm on my forehead.

“What?”

“Hurry up and get off those fucking pills.”

“I will.” I wanted to toss the bloody things out. Whoever said ‘Better living through

chemistry’ was talking out of his arse.

* * * *

It had to be done. I plugged in my netbook and turned it on. It had sat, neglected on

the desk, since my return. The pills might have fucked over our sex life, but they had given

me the courage to think about working again, about writing.

I flipped through the hundreds of emails, deleting them all. If anyone wanted to get in

touch with me, my phone was turned on and plugged in. There was one that made me

pause. The ‘Beaumont’ in the address caught my eye. I opened it.

Dear Mr Harrison,

I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get in touch. Grace told me that you’d phoned but life got in

the way, for both of us, it seems. I was horrified to hear what happened to you and am glad you made it
back safely.

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When you’re back at work, I’d be happy to talk to you. It’s been a long, tough journey back for

me but I’m getting there. I left Afghanistan with a damn sight more than a buggered-up leg. Give me a

call when you’re up to it. My number is below.

I hope you’re doing all right. I can’t imagine it’s been all that easy for you, either. I look

forward to hearing from you.

Regards,
Christopher

Beaumont.

That was a back-to-work assignment I could cope with—far easier than trying to

chronicle four and a half months I’d rather forget. I hit ‘reply’ and typed an answer.

Dear Captain Beaumont,

Thanks for your email. I’m slowly returning to normal and, at some time, will have to bite the

proverbial bullet and return to work. When I do, I would like to talk to you. I’ll give you a call closer to

the time.

I’m doing all right, all things considered. I’m just glad to be back home.

Sincerely

Evan

Harrison.

I opened a new file and started hammering out some questions. For the first time in

weeks, I felt like I had some purpose other than being a reluctant domestic caretaker. By the

time Colin returned home I had a full outline and a sense of relief that my brain hadn’t seized

up entirely.

“You’re working?” He slipped into the study and kissed the back of my neck.

“Yup.” I reached back and touched his cheek. “But don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t, I promise.” He smelt of aftershave and his skin was cold from the frosty

evening. “What is it?”

“A little follow-up story from Afghanistan. I had an email from that captain I told you

about, the one who was nearly blown to bits by the IED. I had it in mind to do a story before I

left for…you know.” I still hated saying the name of that fucking country. “His wife told me

he wasn’t up to it back then. I suppose he is now.”

“Sounds good to me.” He leaned against the desk. “It sounds like a good place to start

again.”

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“That’s what I thought. We got along really well. It could be good.”

“I’m just relieved you feel like working again.”

“So am I.” I turned the computer off and looked at Colin. His face was still flushed

from the cold. Before the pills, this would’ve been the moment when I would’ve reached for

him, desperate with wanting him. Desperate to feel his lips pressed to mine, his hands on me.

Instead, I picked up his hand, warmed his icy fingers between mine and sat there, empty. I

couldn’t even feel regret. Every emotion I’d once had was now muted. I passed through the

days like a zombie.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Fucking meds.” He sighed and brushed his lips across my forehead. “I miss you,

boyo.”

I swallowed. “I miss you, too.” I couldn’t even cry. The days when we couldn’t keep

our hands off each other seemed a lifetime ago.

He took my hand. “Sit with me for a while?”

“Yes.” I could still do that. I could sit beside him on the settee and let him hold my

hand. It was my link to how things used to be.

I sank onto the settee and watched Colin move around the room, closing curtains,

turning on lamps, lighting the fire. He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a glass

of wine for him and a tonic, ice and lemon for me.

“Music or television?” He handed me the glass.

“Music.” It was too easy to take refuge in television. It killed what little we could find

to talk about.

Colin smiled. “Good choice.” I suppose he thought that too.

We sat shoulder to shoulder, listening to music and watching the flames. This was one

of the good moments. He rested his head on my shoulder. I set my glass down and put my

arm around him. He nestled against me with a sigh. “Thank Christ the week is over.”

“Yeah.”

“You do realise Christmas is only a couple of weeks away.”

“Yeah.” The television wouldn’t let us forget that. Endless adverts, Christmas

programmes, reminders to buy absurd amounts of food. I had managed to summon up the

courage to venture into Oxford and buy presents for everyone. I’d found a treasure for Colin,

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a first edition John Donne, hidden away in the dark and dusty corner of a second-hand

bookshop. I wished I could give him what he really wanted…a Christmas break spent

entirely in bed. Instead, we had the Christmas season family shuffle—Christmas Eve and

Christmas Day with my family, then a long trek to Cardiff to spend Boxing Day with Colin’s

mother. At least the rest of the week would be ours. We’d both turned down invitations to

New Year’s Eve parties and dinners, in search of some peace and, perhaps, a chance to find

my way back to him again.

“It’ll be nice to have a break.”

“Yes.” I tightened my hold on him, breathed in the scent of his hair, felt its softness

beneath my cheek. I was thankful I could still appreciate those small things, that I could still

love him even if the words were hard to find.

“Disconnect the phone, stock the fridge, lock the door, hang around in our brand new

Christmas underwear and scratch our bollocks. Sounds good, doesn’t it?”

I laughed. “It does, actually. Much better than last Christmas.”

“Let me guess, Katy’s family?”

“Christ, yes. Prime rib and the Queen’s speech. Bridge and charades after dinner. It

was fucking awful.”

“What does your family do?”

It occurred to me that he’d never spent Christmas with my family. “Turkey and all the

trimmings. Dad breaks out the best wine, Ellen’s kids act like savages, Brian drinks too much

beer and falls asleep in a snoring pile in the conservatory. But there’s no silly games,

although wearing the paper hat from the Christmas cracker is required.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“It’s not bad.” I liked the idea of Christmas with my family. I liked that they accepted

Colin as part of the festivities. Mum said she’d even bought him a nice present. “Mum does a

good spread.” Perhaps we needed this, a change, being somewhere else to remind us how

much we missed being alone together.

“By the way…”

“Yes?”

“What’s for dinner?”

“Is that all you can think about, Williams? Your stomach?”

“I’m hungry. This wine is going straight to my head.”

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I released him reluctantly. “I’d better go and have a look in the fridge.”

He pulled me back. “Bugger that. Let’s get chips. I need junk food after all this good

home cooking.”

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Chapter Nineteen

Colin’s mother still lived in the same terraced house in Cardiff. It took ages to find a

parking space along the narrow street. It seemed everyone had visitors for Boxing Day. We

hurried along the pavement. An icy wind blew in off the bay, funnelled through the canyon

of houses. It had been years since I’d been there, since university days. The street was the

same, only the cars had changed. Splott used to be a bit down-at-heel, now BMWs, Mercedes

and Porsches crowded the curbs. Most of the houses had been renovated, smart new paint

jobs and cleaned bricks. Exotic shrubs had replaced yew trees and roses. Mrs Williams’ house

was a defiant hold-out, with its conifer hedge and faded, blue door. She still had net curtains,

where her neighbours had bamboo blinds and swags. One of the curtains twitched when

Colin opened the front gate. She already had the door open by the time we were halfway

down the short path. She swept Colin up in an enthusiastic hug.

“It’s about bloody time, boyo. I’ve missed you.”

He hugged her back. “It’s good to see you, too, Mum.”

She let him go and glanced past him at me while I stood there clutching our bag. For

all of Colin’s assurances she was all right with things, it didn’t stop me from wondering how

she’d greet me.

“Come here, you big lump. Give me a hug.” She enveloped me in a cloud of perfume

and warmth. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

“Same here.”

We followed her into the house, into a blast of warmth. The gas fire blazed in the

lounge, which was brilliant with Christmas decorations.

“Why don’t you take your things upstairs? I’ll put the kettle on.”

“Where’ve you put us, Mum?”

“I’m sorry, love, but the spare bedroom is nothing but wall-to-wall boxes, so you’ll

have to make do with your old room. It’s had a good airing and I turned the radiator on. I

know it’s a bit of a squeeze but I didn’t think you’d mind and it is just for one night.”

“That’s fine, Mum. Thanks.” Colin kissed her cheek.

I followed him up the narrow staircase, across the short landing, into his old bedroom.

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Colin dropped the bag at the foot of the bed. “This’ll be a bit cosy. You don’t mind, do

you?”

I looked at the single bed. “Not at all.” There was something very appealing about

sleeping with him in the narrow bed.

He hung his coat in the wardrobe, nudging a stray football back in with his foot. “She

hasn’t done much with this room.”

I glanced around, at the faded Cardiff United posters still tacked to the wall. A couple

of football trophies acted as bookends on a shelf full of mysteries, adventure stories and

Wodehouse. His old desk held more testament to Colin’s past—a model Formula One car, a

model Spitfire and a bowl full of marbles that glinted in the late morning sunlight like cats’

eyes. “I can see that.” There was something very sweet about this glimpse into his past, the

boy he once was.

“At least she changed the duvet cover.”

It was plain, ordinary, navy blue.

“Let me guess…Cardiff United?”

He laughed. “Yeah, I was always the odd one out. All my friends were into rugby.”

“You definitely were always odd.” I smiled at him, bit back an overwhelming urge to

nibble at his lower lip.

“Tea’s up, you two.” Mrs Williams’ voice broke the moment. I kissed him anyway.

Colin’s mother had clearly decided we were both in need of feeding up. Apart from

the tea, there was a plate of biscuits—the nice chocolate ones that come in big tins at

Christmas—and a plate of mince pies. We sat side by side on the settee while Mrs Williams

fussed about with cushions and curtains before she sat down once more.

We talked of inconsequential things, of our Christmas, of hers. Colin gave her a

present, one from both of us, a Crown Derby cup and saucer to go with the rest of her

collection, which jostled for space on the mantelpiece between photographs. I was surprised

to find one of Colin and me there, one we’d asked a waiter to take while we sat outside a pub

on the Thames. Colin had his arm around my shoulder, my hand rested on his knee as we

leaned towards each other. The wind caught at our hair and we were both laughing at

something. Mrs Williams had put it in a smooth silver frame and set it towards the centre of

the shelf.

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“I love that photo,” she said. “I had my doubts about the whole business until I saw

that photograph. I went all funny when I got it and I feel happy and proud every time I look

at it.”

“Thanks, Mum.” Colin kissed her cheek. “I’m glad you feel that way.”

She nodded and wiped her eyes. “Look at me, soppy old moo that I am. I don’t know

what your Dad would’ve made of it all.”

“I don’t think he would’ve been too mad about the idea.”

“Probably not.” Mrs Williams set her cup down. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. What

matters is now and”—she leaned over and patted my knee—“that you’re both well and

happy.”

The conversation veered back to the trivial after that. Then Mrs Williams, who liked a

flutter or two on the horses, put the racing from Kempton Park on.

* * * *

Full after a Boxing Day spread that would’ve fed the five thousand and slightly

squiffy after several beers, it was a relief to climb into bed, huddled together beneath the

duvet.

“Perhaps it’s just as well we’re not in the guest room bed.” Colin shivered and slipped

his arm around my waist. “It’s fucking freezing.”

“Yes.” I rested my chin on his head and held him close, skin on skin. Sadly, no flicker

of desire. I don’t think either of us was up to much after the Boxing Day excess. I was looking

forward to our flat, to the promised lock-in and post-Christmas slobbery. It was all well and

good visiting family, but I needed my peace.

“Are you happy?” Colin’s voice was hesitant, small.

“Yes.” I kissed his hair, inhaled the scent of it. “Very.” And I was. For the first time

since Pakistan, I felt I was finally heading back towards normal on the scale.

“Thank Christ for that.” He exhaled softly against my skin. “Maybe the doctor will let

you ditch those bloody pills.”

“I’ll make an appointment when we get home.” I closed my eyes. I wanted the rest of

my life back. I wanted Colin.

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* * * *

I woke first, after a sleep free of nightmares. It was still dark and the house was silent.

Colin was wrapped around me, both of us bound together in a warm cocoon of duvet against

the chill of the bedroom. I rolled over to face him, his face illuminated by a thin ribbon of

streetlight that slipped beneath the curtains. For the first time in weeks, I felt a nagging,

promising ache in my loins. Of course it would happen here, at half five in the morning, in

his mother’s house, while Colin slept on blissfully unaware of the effect his closeness was

having on me.

Bugger.

I kissed his eyelids, afraid to do much more.

He murmured and stirred, edging closer. His hand unfurled on my chest, fingers

spread out across my skin. “What?”

“I don’t suppose you packed the lube, did you?” I whispered against his cheek.

Colin’s eyes fluttered open, glittering in the gloom.”What?”

“I asked if you’d packed the lube.”

His grin illuminated the darkness. “It’s Christmas. I’m a great believer in miracles

happening at Christmas.”

“Does that mean you did?”

He turned on the lamp, rolled out of bed and padded across the room. “Fuck, it’s

cold.”

The bed was colder without him in it. I watched him rummage through the bag,

retrieve a bottle and hurry back to bed. He dived beneath the covers, his breath already

quickening. “Please tell me you’re not winding me up.”

“Oh, no.” I rolled on top of him, pinned him to the mattress with a kiss. “Most

definitely not a wind-up.”

His hips moved beneath mine in a hypnotic, languid dance. “So it would seem.” His

hands swept along my back.

I shivered and nipped his shoulder. “Make love to me…please.” The scent of him

overwhelmed me, the heat of his skin on mine.

“Yes. I can do that,” he gasped. He slid from underneath me, groped for the lube and

applied it with a generous hand.

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I winced when the cold fluid touched my skin and reached for him. I wanted him

inside me.

“Are you sure?” He moved his lips across my skin, warm, soft, raising goose pimples.

“Oh, yes, I’m sure.” My hips rose to meet his.”It’s a bloody Christmas miracle, let’s

not waste a minute.” I was already close. My hands shook as I held his face between them.

“Please.” I could barely speak.

“Yes.” He covered my mouth with his. Then, “Oh God, yes.” His touch was fire. He

rolled onto me, leaning low, covering my face, throat, shoulders with feverish kisses.

I bit back a cry when Colin drove into me without preamble. He growled and nuzzled

my throat while he moved with relentless grace. His hair fell over his face. I pushed it away. I

wanted to see his eyes. He smiled at me, wide, serene and beautiful, brilliant against the dark

of his stubble, his hair. “I love you,” he whispered.

I was almost beyond words. “I love you.”

He quickened, his eyes closed, lips parted. “Oh, Jesus…”

I quickened with him, wanting to keep him inside me forever. God only knew when

the veil made by the meds would slip again. I pulled him down, seeking his mouth, seeking

his breath. I wound my fingers through his hair, held him close. I felt him grow inside me,

exhale with a soft, whispered moan and spill into me with a final, long, shuddering thrust. I

let go, then, rising and falling, my cry muffled by the warm, smooth skin of his shoulder. I

held him while we both trembled and tried to catch our breath.

Best Christmas present I ever had.

“Merry Christmas,” Colin murmured against my skin.

“Merry Christmas to you, too.” I wound a lock of his hair around my finger. The

warmth and weight of him was better than any duvet. I pulled the covers up, draping them

over his shoulders.

He remained still, his breath on my skin. Across the landing, a door opened and the

stairs creaked as his mother made her way downstairs. Moments later, I heard the whistle of

the kettle.

I kissed Colin’s hair and let my fingers wander across his shoulders, drifting in idle

circles. “Is your mother one of those well-meaning people who likes to surprise people with

early morning cups of tea in bed?”

“Yes, as it happens, she is.”His voice was a drowsy purr.

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“It would probably be a good idea if we got out of this compromising position then,

don’t you think?”

He slid off me with a sigh and threaded his legs through mine. “It doesn’t matter.

What happened before matters much more.”

“Yes, it does.” I closed my eyes, feeling stretched, a bit sore and sated.

Colin settled beside me. His early morning stubble was soft against my skin. “I hope

she lets us sleep for a little while longer”

“I bloody hope so.” I was tired again but, for once, it was the right kind of tired.

* * * *

“Evan?” Colin brushed my cheek with his hand. “Are you all right?”

I pulled myself of the grey mist that surrounded me and looked at him. “Yeah, I’m

fine.”

“You were miles away.” His eyes were dark, worried.

“I was?” How did I tell him about the mist, the cold, swirling veil that fell between me

and the world, between me and the living? It was the pills. The doctor wouldn’t let me toss

them, telling me to hold on until spring because January and February were lousy months.

Even with the meds, January was turning out to be pretty fucking awful.

“I asked what you wanted for dinner?”

I shook my head, trying to shake off the last, drifting threads of mist. “It doesn’t

matter, anything.”

He stood up with a sigh and disappeared into the kitchen. I stared at the curtains, now

closed against the January night. I couldn’t even remember Colin arriving home. I knew my

silence had to hurt but I just couldn’t find the will to fight it. It was easier to surrender to the

mist.

“How about spaghetti?” He called out.

I could tell he was trying to sound bright, like he wasn’t bothered by the zombie he’d

come home to.

“Yeah, that’s fine.” He could’ve suggested boiled cabbage and pigs’ cheeks and I

wouldn’t have noticed. Everything seemed to taste the same. I ate only because I needed to.

If I didn’t, there would be more for Colin to worry about and question me about. I just didn’t

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have the energy. Some days, it took everything I had to drag my sorry arse out of bed. I loved

that man and I only kept going because I didn’t want to upset him.

Colin returned, carrying bottles of beer. He sat down beside me and handed me a

bottle. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” The beer was cold and it woke me up a bit.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” He rested against me, propping his feet on the arm of

the settee.

I put my arm around him. Touching him offered me a tenuous hold on life and

warmth.

“Yeah. I think it’s the time of year. That’s why the doctor told me to stay on the pills.

He said it’s not a good time to jack them in.”

Another sigh as he settled in the crook of my arm. I wished I could feel just the

slightest stirring of need. The only need I felt was for his closeness, like a child’s blanket.

“Roll on, spring.”

“Yeah.” I kissed his hair.

“Fuck the spaghetti, I’ll order Chinese, how’s that?”

“That’s fine. Something spicy, I need a kick up the arse.”

He laughed. “If I order the kung pao, you’ll get more than a kick up the arse. There’ll

be scratch marks on the bathroom door in the morning.”

“I’d forgotten about that.” The local takeaway’s kung pao had long-lasting,

devastating effects. “Sweet and sour might be better, all that lovely, fluorescent orange

sauce.”

Colin took another sip of beer. “Now you’ve put me right off Chinese. Maybe just pie

and chips?”

“That sounds better. You know how much I love mystery meat pies.” I did. The pies

were advertised as steak and kidney, but I doubted that the few small pieces of beef that

floated in the obscenely thick gravy had come from the same part of the cow as steak. It

didn’t matter—there was something very comforting about pie and chips, smothered in

brown sauce, on a cold winter’s night.

“That’s my boy.” He turned and grinned at me.

* * * *

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I liked bedtime best. I loved the refuge from the dark and cold. I loved that, in sleep, I

could pretend that everything was all right. If I dreamt at all, I didn’t remember. The pills did

still, at least, keep the nightmares away. The best part of the day was Colin taking me in his

arms, protecting me from those demons, keeping the mist at bay. I always fell asleep, my

head on his chest, to the constant lullaby of his heart beneath my cheek. His hand curled

around my shoulder, fingers warm and soft on my skin. The fading scent of his cologne

offered a bittersweet reminder of what I couldn’t want. His breath ruffled my hair, and his

lips always brushed mine before he slept.

He kept the vampires from my door, as the song goes. I just wished I knew how to

find the words to tell him how much he meant to me, how much I loved him for what he did

for me. Instead, I wallowed in silence and tried to fight the winter darkness, scared by my

ennui. In the end, I knew I had to write myself out of it.

Dear Captain Beaumont,

I’m just about ready to get back to work and wondered if I could arrange an interview. I’d be

more than happy to travel to Newmarket if that’s more convenient. In any event, I’d like to include
Mrs Beaumont, if she’s willing.

Just one request. I’m not all that easy with my own company these days, so I’d be bringing my

partner with me, if that’s all right.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Dear

Harrison,

I’m glad to hear that you’re getting back into the swing of things. I’d be more than happy to

chat with you and Grace is all right with the idea too.

Grace suggested that you come down on a Friday night and we’ll put you up. That way, on

Saturday morning, you and I can talk and Grace can look after your partner. Might as well make an

occasion out of it. I don’t really get to speak to people outside racing these days so it’ll make a nice

change. Plus, I think I owe you a beer or two.

Grace says the third weekend in February works best for her.

* * * *

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We drove to Newmarket in silence. I hadn’t really got much to say. I was doing a story

and I needed to keep my head together to get it right. I’d spent a few days assembling

questions and trying to establish what I wanted out of the interview.

“Are you all right with this?” Colin looked at me when I took the turn off to

Newmarket.

“I don’t know. It feels like it’s been ages since I’ve done anything like this. It’s like I’m

starting all over but I can’t sit around forever. I need to pull my finger out and get on with

things.”

“Good idea.” His voice was a sigh. He stared at the road ahead, at the fields and trees,

still under a milky white sky. “You can’t sit around forever.”

It was the closest he’d ever come to a complaint. “I know.” I rested my hand on his

knee, gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a selfish arse.”

For a moment, he covered my hand with his. The hum of the engine couldn’t hide his

sigh when he withdrew it and lapsed back into silence.

I hated that I couldn’t be arsed to breach that silence.

Beaumont, of course, had provided excellent directions. We pulled into the yard as the

daylight began to fade. Colin retrieved our bag from the boot and we walked towards the

small cottage beside the front gate. A thin trail of smoke drifted from the chimney into the

cold, damp air and lights glowed softly in the gathering dusk. There was something very

homely and comforting about the simple little house where it nestled beneath a stand of

poplars. There was noise in the yard behind us—the whickering of horses, the thump of

buckets and the distant buzz of the radio. It was all foreign territory to me, horses and racing.

Watching the races with Mrs Williams on Boxing Day had been the first time I’d watched it

for ages.

Beaumont leaned in the doorway. It was odd to see him in civilian clothes, his hair

longer and his beard gone. He smiled and extended his hand in welcome.

“It’s good to see you, Harrison.” His grip was warm and firm.

“Good to see you too, Captain.”

“Just Chris, please. I’m done with the army, remember?”

I could live with that. I introduced Colin and Beaumont led us into the house. “Grace

will be with us shortly. She’s just finishing up evening stables. We’ve decided to eat out, if

that’s all right with you.”

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“Sounds good to me.”

“Here’s your room. It’s not exactly the Ritz, in fact, you’re our first guests.” He opened

the door to a small room. “Sorry about the bed. It’s a settee during the day.”

The futon was small, not that I minded. Colin set the bag on the bed and shrugged out

of his coat. His eyes were distant, his shoulders and back rigid while he stared out of the

window. My gut twisted with nagging guilt.

“We might as well have a drink.” Beaumont limped back to the kitchen. “Wine?”

We both nodded and sank onto the settee. I found some comfort in the fact that Colin

sat beside me, his shoulder pressed to mine.

Beaumont returned with the wine and sat down. “Cheers.”

We raised our glasses. If Beaumont was surprised by my choice of partner, he

certainly didn’t let on. We chatted idly about the drive, racing, the weather, until his wife

arrived, sweeping through the kitchen door like a gust of wind. She was nearly as tall as

Beaumont, her dark brown hair tucked beneath a faded baseball cap. She paused in the

doorway and smiled.

“I’ll be with you all shortly. I imagine you’d rather not have dinner with someone who

reeks of horse shit.” She grinned and disappeared.

Her husband laughed softly. “I should warn you, Grace doesn’t mince her words.”

* * * *

Grace Beaumont certainly didn’t mince her words over dinner when it came to what

had happened to her husband.

“It’s one thing putting a body back together,” she said while we ate. “But it’s another

thing entirely putting a mind back.” She stabbed at a potato with her fork. “Chris said it was

all right to be honest with you, so that’s what I’m doing.” Her hazel eyes snapped, full of a

remembered fury. “He was messed up. He wouldn’t even see me when he first came back.

He said he wasn’t the same man who’d fallen in love with me. He wouldn’t even talk to me

on the phone.” For a moment, there was pain in her voice. “I don’t think I need to tell you

how much that hurt.”

Grace set her fork down. “When he came here, it was fine for a little while. I think

there’s a little bit of time when the joy of being together takes over. There’s that novelty of

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sharing life and living with someone you love.” She sighed. “And then it all started going

wrong.”

I didn’t need to press her.

“Chris was withdrawn, bad-tempered, had nightmares almost every night. He got

absolutely rat-arsed one afternoon and then decided, luckily, that drink didn’t help. He

trashed a bookcase and had terrible insomnia. He was completely fucked up.” She smiled at

her husband, covered his hand with her own.

Beaumont smiled back at her, his eyes warm. “I told you Grace didn’t mince her

words.”

“I had no idea what to do. I think my big mistake was being too kind and indulging

him. I suppose I was just so relieved he’d made it back that I didn’t want things to go wrong,

I didn’t want to lose him again.” She paused, set her fork down and took a sip of wine. Her

eyes were too bright. “But I nearly bloody did. He decided to go walkabout for a few months.

He left me here wondering what I’d done wrong, what I could’ve done to make things right.”

Her honesty was like a knife. I thought of some of the things she’d said about

Beaumont and recognised a shade of myself in them.

“But he came back.” She looked at her husband. “It took a while, but we sorted things

out. I put him to work in the yard, gave him a pitchfork and a few horses to look after.”

Beaumont laughed. “The world’s worst stable lad.”

“Bloody awful.” Grace shook her head. “Useless at mucking out, scared of anything

bigger than fourteen hands, can’t rug up a horse.”

“It did me the world of good, getting out of the house and doing something.”

Colin looked at me. I looked down at my hands and made a business of checking the

recorder.

“In the end, I worked out that Chris was best at working his charm on potential

owners. He’s managed to sweet talk half a dozen new owners into the yard.” She squeezed

his hand and smiled at him once more.

I decided that Grace Beaumont was one canny woman. “I’ve seen your husband

talking with tribesmen in Afghanistan. They’re difficult customers. He was very persuasive.”

She giggled. “You can say that again.”

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That, more or less, marked the end of the Grace Beaumont portion of the interview.

Talk strayed to more mundane things. By the time we returned to the cottage we were all

fairly well-lit from wine.

An early start meant an early night. Grace was going to take Colin with her to the

gallops in the morning, leaving Beaumont and me free to talk. I crawled beneath the duvet.

The room was cool and Colin was warm.

He turned off the bedside lamp, leaned over and kissed me lightly. “Goodnight.”

I kissed him back, scared by his silence. “Goodnight.”

He rolled onto his side, his back to me. I stared at the ceiling for a long time,

wondering what I’d done to finally turn him away from me. Guilt gnawed at my gut but the

ever-present mist wouldn’t let me reach out to him. I rolled over and stared at his back, at the

smooth sweep of flesh, and wished I could touch it, touch him. My eyes stung and it was a

long time before I slept.

* * * *

Beaumont handed me another mug of coffee and stared out of the kitchen window.

The morning air was grey with a soft drizzle.

“So there you have it,” he said. “That’s how it was, that’s how it still is.”

I sipped my coffee and watched Colin follow Grace from stable to stable. “Thanks for

being so honest with me. I appreciate it.”

He smiled. “We’re Berkstead old boys, we can be honest with each other.”

Even the name of the school made me shudder. “Still, thanks.”

“Anyway, as I see it, you’re in the same boat as me.”

“I

am?”

“I only know you from Afghanistan but we talked a lot. The man I knew then isn’t the

one standing here in my kitchen.” He set his coffee down and folded his arms across his

chest. “You were kidnapped and held hostage by lunatics for four months. You don’t walk

away from that without scars. Yeah, you may not have a knackered leg, but you’ve got a

buggered-up soul.”

I stared at him.

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“I see the same hurt and bewilderment in Colin’s eyes that I used to see in Grace’s. It’s

not something you forget.” He glanced out of the window. “I think Gracey sees it, too.”

I looked past him, at Colin and Grace standing together at the edge of the yard. She

had her hand on his arm and I could tell from the set of his head, the way he stood, as if he’d

just done ten rounds with Mike Tyson, that he’d just about had enough. I swallowed at the

knot in my throat and nodded. “You’re pretty bloody perceptive.”

“I’m a soldier. I notice things. Grace is a horsewoman, she notices things.”

Colin was shaking his head in a weary way that tore me apart inside. Jesus.

“I was beginning to guess that I’ve probably pushed him too far.” It was hard to talk.

“I think you have. There’s a point when you have to pull your finger out and sort

things out for yourself. You can’t let your loved ones carry you forever. I nearly lost Grace

because I was a self-absorbed arse. Don’t make the same mistake.”

“No.” I wanted to run out into the rain, throw my arms around Colin and beg

forgiveness for my selfishness. I knew, however, that it would be best left until we got home.

“I won’t. I’ll sort it out.”

“Good.” He patted my arm. “Good man. The sooner you do that, the sooner you can

move on. This little interview is a good start.”

“Yeah.”

was.

“Good luck. He strikes me as a good man. You need him, but don’t bleed him dry. He

needs you just as much.”

“He is.” I thought of all the nights he’d held me while I slept. All the times he’d

calmed me after my nightmares, talked to me in spite of my silence.

I watched them walk back towards the house. Colin had his hands in his pockets, his

head still down. Grace touched his arm once more and smiled. I could’ve wept because the

old Colin would’ve smiled in return, would’ve charmed her, made her laugh.

“I guess Colin’s the reason you weren’t missing your girlfriend much.”

“Yes. It only took me ten years to realise that. I wish I’d faced up to things sooner. We

could’ve had more time together before everything went tits-up.” I sighed, looked at

Beaumont and wondered why I was telling him all this. “When I did finally figure it all out, I

never looked back. I never questioned how I felt about him. Why, after ten years, it was right

to find out that he loved me and I loved him.”

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“These things happen. I certainly wasn’t expecting to find my future wife during an

evening at the races.” He picked up his coffee once more. “Speak to him. Please. You need

him, he needs you. Don’t fuck it up, Harrison.”

“I won’t. When we get home I’ll put things right.” I would. Whatever it took, I had to

make things right between us.

* * * *

We stopped at the supermarket on the way home, lugged the bags upstairs in silence

and unpacked in silence. Outside, the day’s drizzle had turned to a cold and steady rain,

loud against the windows in the quiet flat. I stopped and watched Colin while he stowed the

wine away. His lips were pressed together, as if he was fighting with words of his own. His

eyes were somewhere else, somewhere I couldn’t see.

I’d been juggling words in my head for the entire drive home.

“Colin.”

He turned slowly. “What?” His eyes were wary.

I drew him into my arms and held him. His cheek rested against mine. He braced his

hands against my chest, ready to push me away. I held on to him. After a moment, he

relaxed against me with a long, shuddering sigh.

Colin’s arms slid around me, tightened, and the sigh became a soft, rasping sob. His

tears were hot on my skin—no doubt my tears felt the same to him. He trembled and wept.

We stood in the middle of the kitchen and clung to each other. I stroked his hair, kissed his

eyelids, his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth, the line of his jaw. I tasted his skin, his tears,

wiped them from his face with my finger.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry I’ve been such a selfish arse.” My throat hurt. I

curled my fingers through his hair. “I wish I could say more, I wish I could tell you how

much I love you, how you’ve saved me, how I’ll never be able to thank you for all that

you’ve done.” My eyes stung. “I’m going to throw those fucking pills away. I don’t care what

the doctor says. I’m done with them. They stop me from reaching out to you. They’re killing

me, they’re killing us.”

I let him go, walked into the living room and retrieved the bottle of pills from the

overnight bag.

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“This is how much I love you. How much I can’t bear the thought of losing you.” I

twisted off the cap, turned on the tap and poured the pills down the sink. “I don’t care if I get

panic attacks or nightmares. These fucking things aren’t worth it. They’re not worth losing

you. Nothing is worth that.”

Colin coiled his hand around my wrist. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“There are other ways of fighting this. Losing you isn’t one of them.” The last of the

pills disappeared in a torrent of cold water. I took his face between my hands. “I love you. I’ll

always love you.”

“I love you, too.” His voice was a shaky whisper. “I can’t even being to tell you how

long I’ve waited to hear you say that. I wondered if you ever would again.”

“It isn’t easy. It’s fucking hard but it’ll get better now, I promise. I’m sorry I hurt you. I

just never realised.” I pushed strands of hair from his face. “It won’t happen again. I need to

get better, for both our sakes.”

“I’ve missed you.” He kissed me, a sweet, gentle kiss that stirred feelings long left

dormant. I tasted his tears, tasted mine. I couldn’t stop weeping. Neither could he. Months of

silence fell away.

“I’ve missed you, too.”

We sat side by side on the settee and listened to the rain. I put my arm around Colin’s

shoulders while he rested against me. His tumbled hair was soft beneath my chin. It was

high time I held him, so I did. When we went to bed, I held him while he slept, brushed his

lips with mine before I slept, not letting go.

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Chapter Twenty

I sat and stared at my computer. The brilliant morning sunlight fell through the

window and across the desk. The Beaumont interview was finished and sent away to John,

who loved it and promised a centre spread in the Sunday edition.

I had one more thing I needed to write.

It had to be done.

I opened a new word document, took a deep breath and started to type.

I arrived in Islamabad in the middle of the night, like a thief…

It spilled out of me, every last detail, every moment, from Islamabad to Gilgit and

beyond. I hammered out about ten thousand words on the first day. I didn’t care if it made it

into the paper or not, I just wanted it out.

“What are you doing?” Colin, back from work, kissed the back of my neck.

“Lancing the boil.” I paused and flexed my fingers.

He raised an eyebrow.

“I’m writing about last summer, our stolen summer.” I reached for his hand when he

leaned against the desk. “I want it out of me. Then, maybe it’ll be gone forever and we can

finally get on with our lives.”

“I think it’s a very good idea.” He brushed the hair from my forehead. “Especially if it

makes you better.”

“It may take a while. I don’t want to stop, not while the words keep coming.”

“It’s all right. I understand.” Another kiss, sweet, fleeting. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Thanks.” I turned back to the keyboard, and hammered out the words once more.

* * * *

I finished Friday evening, two days after I started.

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I had never been so pleased to see Heathrow’s runway in my life.

I saved the file and printed it off. My eyes hurt, my neck hurt, everything hurt. I

collected the pages from the printer and stumbled into the living room where Colin was

stretched out on the settee, watching television.

“It’s done.” I handed him the pages. “I need a shower and I need to sleep.” I left him

there and headed for the shower. One last ritual, a cleansing ritual. The words were done and

I’d done my bit. If they never saw the light of day again, I didn’t care. If John wanted them

published, he’d have to do the editing.

I stood in the shower until I could scarcely keep my eyes open. It didn’t matter. I had

the weekend, with Colin, to recover. I dried myself, groped my way to the bedroom and

crawled gratefully beneath the warm weight of the duvet. I barely noticed when the mattress

dipped and Colin climbed in beside me.

“Evan?” His voice was quiet, uncertain. “Are you still awake?”

I rolled over and opened my eyes. “Yeah.”

His hand drifted across my face. “Are you all right?”

I covered his hand with my own and held it against my cheek. “I am now.” I was

boneless, warm and comfortable. The mist was gone, leaving the bedroom lit with a soft,

amber glow.

“I read it all.” His lips brushed mine. “Jesus.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to leave anything out.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” His eyes were bright, too bright.

I reached up and brushed away a tear with my thumb.” You can rip those pages up if

you like, throw the bits in the fire. It’s done. You know the story now.”

“We’ll do that tomorrow, eh?” He settled beside me, resting his head on my shoulder.

I took him into my arms. “Yeah. We can toast our bread on the flames. Who needs a

toaster?”

He laughed softly.

“What’s so funny?” It was an effort to talk.

“You don’t half talk a load of shite when you’re tired.”

“All right.” I hid my face in his hair. “I’ll shut up and go to sleep now.”

* * * *

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We burnt the pages. It was a chilly Saturday morning and the sunlight reduced the

flames in the fireplace to pale echoes. It didn’t matter. They did the job when I placed the

paper in the fire. We stood together and watched the pages darken and curl, lapped by the

flames. Colin curled his fingers through mine and caressed the back of my hand with his

thumb.

“Is that better?”

“Yes.”

“What will you do with the file?”

“Sit on it for a while, send it to John. He can do with it what he likes. I’m done with

it.”

“Good.” His shoulder brushed mine.

I was still tired but it was a good tired, the kind that made me look forward to a long,

lazy day on the settee, listening to music or watching television. I would’ve settled for

anything as long as Colin was there.

* * * *

Another step forward. I took the train to London on the following Tuesday and went

to the office. I’d already warned John and he’d emailed back that he was looking forward to

seeing me and that he had a proposal in mind.

When I walked out of the lift, I took a deep breath, bracing myself for fuss and stares.

The train journey had been fine. I had my iPod, my netbook and I did a lot of staring out of

the window at the slowly greening countryside. Walking out of Paddington had been the

hardest part. I’d stood in the queue and waited for a taxi, trying to get used to the rush and

the noise.

I put my hand on the door and pushed it open. Anna, the receptionist, was the first to

spot me. She was on the phone but she waved, smiled and blew me a kiss. Mary was next.

She leapt to her feet with a little squeal and hugged me.

“Oh, God, Evan, it’s so lovely to see you.”

There was no chance of an unobtrusive return after that. Heads appeared over cubicle

walls until the entire newsroom resembled some kind of bizarre rodent colony. Someone

started clapping and, before I knew it, the applause spread along the maze of passageways,

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along with hoots and cheers. For the first time in a long time, my cheeks burned. I looked

down at my feet, took a deep breath and had no idea what to do.

Mary took my arm. “It’s all right. I know it’s weird but, believe me, we all missed you.

We were all worried about you.”

“Even the office arseholes?”

“Yes, even them.” She grinned.

“I won’t have to make a speech or anything, will I? I wasn’t expecting this.”

“Not if you don’t want to. Just smile and wave.”

“I feel like the fucking Queen.” I was glad Mary had hold of my arm while we walked

through the office. More than a few people ducked out of their cubicles to shake my hand or

pat me on the back. It was the longest hundred feet I’d ever walked.

John was waiting outside his office. He shook my hand, hugged me and said, “I think

you’d better say something.”

Fuck.

Another giant step. John brought a chair out of his office and I clambered onto it and

stared at all those faces. I hoped they weren’t waiting for anything profound.

“I wasn’t expecting this, believe me.” I tried to think of what to say. “I’ll keep it short.

I’m glad to be home, I’m glad you all gave me time to recover. I’m getting better. It’s taking a

while, but I’m getting there. Thanks for the warm welcome and, one of these days, the drinks

will be on me. Just not today.” I stepped down from the chair to more applause and was glad

to find refuge in John’s office. I sank into a chair and grinned at him.

“You’re looking well.” He leant back and smiled. “Very well.”

“Thanks. I feel a lot better.”

“So you’re ready to come back to work?”

“It depends what you had in mind.”

“Fancy doing a column? Tarquin is just about ready to retire. You’d be perfect.”

Tarquin Frost was one of the last relics from the paper’s halcyon days on Fleet Street.

Cambridge-educated, partial to tweed jackets and pretty young men, he wrote a twice-

weekly column that had once been the jewel in the paper’s proverbial crown. Sadly, whisky

had got the better of him and his columns had turned into little more than heavily-edited,

meandering tirades. He rarely put in an appearance at the office, choosing to write in his

favourite pub, in his favourite chair with his latest lady-boy dancing attendance.

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“Me?”

“You’re a brilliant writer. You can work from home. I have every faith in you. Upstairs

have every faith in you.”

“I wasn’t expecting that.” I looked at him. “What would I write about?” The prospect

of plucking a subject out of thin air and pontificating on it wasn’t what I was used to. I was

used to getting my teeth into a story, covering it from every angle. Now I got to pick a story

and express my opinion about it. “I don’t know.”

“Give it a try, see how it goes.”

“When do I start?”

“Tarquin leaves at the end of March. Can you stand another month off?”

“Christ, yes.” I decided I could use the time wisely, read some of Tarquin’s archived

stuff, see what all the fuss was about his writing back in the days before it took a bottle of

whisky to get his writing cells fired up.

“Write a couple of practice pieces and send them to me. I’ll soon tell you if you’re on

the right track.”

I was going to get paid for sitting at home and pontificating twice a week. “For the

same pay?”

“Yes. Don’t forget, this is a high-profile thing and you’re a high-profile journalist. It’s

not like I’m promoting Sam from the sports desk, or the mailroom boy. You deserve a crack

at this. You’ve earned it.”

“By getting kidnapped and held hostage?”

“Well, that’s certainly upped your profile. I won’t lie, it’s a big boost.” He picked up a

folder. “Which brings me to this. Your story. I read it. I couldn’t stop reading it. It’s fucking

brilliant.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“Serialise it. I’m not cutting a single word. It goes out as you wrote it.”

I stared at him. “Bloody hell.”

“Don’t be so bloody modest. Upstairs are wetting themselves. They’re already rubbing

their hands over the sales.”

“I won’t have to do any interviews or anything, will I?”

“Not if you don’t want to. We can make sure you’re not pestered.”

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“I’d appreciate that. I really can’t be doing with more fuss. I was hoping that I was

already yesterday’s news.”

“I don’t blame you. The quiet life seems to agree with you.”

“It does.” I thought, with a fierce twist of longing, of the sunlit flat, of warmth, music

and Colin. A few hours away and I already wanted to be back there. John had just handed

me that chance.

“Good. Then get your arse back there, enjoy the rest and stay in touch.” He stood up

and held out his hand.

I shook it, eager to be away. “Thanks.”

“You’re

welcome.”

I walked out into the office, where everyone was back at work. A few people popped

out of their cubicles to shake my hand and welcome me back. I thanked them as politely as I

could and hoped I didn’t look as if I was in too much of a hurry to get away.

By the time I managed to leave, another hour had passed. I flagged down a taxi and

headed back to the station and home.

* * * *

I rested on the settee, tired after a day of trying to write my own column. I’d picked a

juicy story of growing unrest in Jordan and tried to put my own spin on what I thought was

happening. Bloody Tarquin bloody Frost made it all seem effortless. He was out of my

league. It was hard to write about something I wasn’t experiencing first-hand. I’d been to

Jordan before and loved the place. But I could only draw on my memories and that wasn’t

enough for me. The words of other journalists weren’t enough for me to draw on. For a

moment I felt the old, familiar wanderlust. For a moment I wanted to book a flight, throw my

things in a backpack and get there. I had to push those thoughts aside. I’d promised Colin I

wasn’t going anywhere. I couldn’t let him down, not after everything we’d been through.

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed four times. Outside, a soft March rain trickled

down the windows. It was a good day not to be going anywhere.

Colin walked through the door. As usual, his tie was already half off. He removed it

and tossed it onto a chair. His jacket followed, falling onto the cushions with a whisper.

“Hello.”

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I sat up. “Hi.”

He kicked off his shoes and collapsed beside me. “Fuck, it’s good to be home.”

I felt the same little lift every day when he came home. “It’s good to have you home.”

He leant back into the cushions and grinned at me. “So how’s it going, Tarquin?”

“Bloody hard. I don’t know how he did it.”

“Whisky, probably. Shall I start buying it by the case?”

“No, thanks. I can’t write when I’m drunk.” I rested my head on his shoulder. Seeking

the warmth I’d missed during the day.

“Thank Christ for that.” He cupped my chin. “I prefer you sober.”

“So do I.” I closed my eyes when he kissed me. It was a slow-burning kiss, like a late

night glass of whisky. Languid and warm, he glided his tongue over mine and sighed.

I wound my fingers through his hair and returned the sigh and the kiss. I lingered

over his bottom lip, his jaw, his eyebrows, feeling weak, feeling long-neglected fires

beginning to burn. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too.” Colin slid his hands beneath my jumper, lifting it, easing it

over my head.

I unfastened his shirt buttons, slid my hands beneath the cotton to seek the warmth of

his skin.

He shrugged out of his shirt, letting it flutter to the floor. The leather cushions creaked

gently when Colin eased me back. His lips meandered across my shoulders. “Ah,” he sighed.

“Freckles.”

“Never mind the freckles.” I drew him back, wanting his mouth covering mine. I

loved the slow-fast-slow kisses. I loved the idea of snogging like a couple of teenagers in the

back row of the cinema.

Colin punctuated every kiss with a sigh or a soft moan. He moved his hips in lazy

tandem with mine, denim whispering against denim. I shivered with every slow gyration,

ran my hands along the smooth skin of his back and held him close until there was nothing

between us, until his pulse sang in my veins. At last, we could take our time, not worry about

people bursting in with cups of tea. I wanted to take my time. I wanted to reacquaint myself

with every last inch of him.

“I think we need to go to bed,” he gasped when I caressed him, running the heel of my

hand over the front of his jeans.

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“Perhaps.”

“Tease.” His fingers eased my zip down, slid beneath the straining fabric of my

boxers. “Two can play at that game.”

“Jesus.”

“Bed.”

“Yes.”

He rolled off me, held out his hand. “Come on, then.”

I took his hand, stood up, my legs trembling. Everything trembled. We reeled across

the room, into the shadowed hall, paused there when Colin backed me to the wall to kiss me

once more, raising the temperature. I plunged my hands into his hair, feverish with need,

ready to explode.

“Bed,” he repeated.

I’d gone beyond speech. We stumbled into the bedroom and tumbled onto the bed,

surrounded by the yielding softness of the duvet. I kicked my jeans away and grappled with

his, pushing them away along with his boxers. His erection burnt against mine.

“I want to make love to you.” I bit his shoulder.

“Yes.”

I found the lube, worked it in and crawled between his legs, scarcely able to hold

myself up. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been inside him. I edged in, fighting the pre-

orgasmic tug, the overwhelming temptation to just give in to it. Instead, I took a deep breath

and leaned low, kissing him, tasting his lips once more.

“For the love of God, Evan, please.” Colin grabbed my hips, curled his fingers into my

skin.

A bit further. I waited, adjusted to the exquisite tightness and lost the will to speak. I

hadn’t even dared to dream of this moment, not until now. I took another long, shaky breath

and began to move, finding a rhythm. Colin moved with me, each ragged breath raising the

pace. He reached for me, pulling my mouth down to his. He coiled his tongue around mine. I

grew inside him, felt the old electricity return, spark and rise with every thrust. The constant

whisper of the rain receded, replaced by rapid, rasping breaths, the soft slap of skin against

skin.

“It’s been too long.” Colin nipped my shoulder.

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“Hmm.” I was gone, caught up in him, lost and dizzy with love and longing. I

quickened, seeking release, seeking a way home. Every move I made brought me closer. I

caught his bottom lip between my own, tugged at it.

Colin cupped my face and covered my skin with feverish little kisses between tiny

moans. The scent of him overwhelmed me—aftershave and soap, sweet and musky. The

duvet rustled beneath us, a cocoon of dark silk. I spread my fingers across it, flexed them,

dug into the fabric when he tightened around me. He pushed his feet back, almost beneath

his hips and I plunged deeper, growling while I nipped at his throat, his shoulders. His skin

was soft, felt like home. We fused together and I wanted to weep. I could’ve stayed in that

room forever, I could’ve stayed inside him forever. Instead, I gave in and let go. Colin’s back

arched away from the bed, his hips thrust against mine. He cried out, tugging my hair, and I

pushed one last time. Everything gave way. Everything made sense.

We fell back together, wrapped around each other, struggling to breathe. I held him

and stroked his hair while he rested against me. The rain quickened against the window,

driven by a rising wind. It didn’t matter. We were safe and warm. I was home. I was where I

wanted to be, where I belonged.

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Chapter Twenty-One

I sent my first practice piece off. I’d stuck with the idea of writing about the growing

influence of Islamic extremists in Jordan. Lord knows I had an axe to grind but I didn’t want

to earn myself a fatwah, so I concentrated on what drove them rather than express an

opinion. I wasn’t happy with it. I really wanted to let rip. I attached it to an email and hit

send, then turned on the television.

A BBC reporter stood in front of a building in Amman. In a grave tone, he spoke of the

urgent government meetings taking place in the building behind him, of restive crowds

gathering on street corners, of one or two mullahs preaching sedition and calling the king a

western apologist and puppet. I’d been to Jordan once, many years before, when I’d first

started out. I’d liked the place, loved the relaxed feel of Amman, the hospitality of the people.

It seemed a bloody shame that it could all go tits-up because of rabid lunatics.

I knew if I made one phone call to John, I could be on my way there. I could be in the

thick of things. I could be talking to those insane mullahs, to people on the street, to nervous

government ministers. For a moment I felt the tug, the urge to go hunting again, like a retired

foxhound scenting a fox and wanting to pick up the trail once more.

No, you’re done with that.

I watched the sunlight falling carelessly across the faded rugs. The aroma of gently

stewing meat drifted from the kitchen. A bottle of Australian merlot waited on the counter.

No more airports for me. My passport expired in three months’ time and I had no intention

of renewing it.

I picked up the remote and turned the television off. Music was better. I glanced at the

clock. My pulse quickened at the sound of a car’s tyres on gravel. I went to the fridge and

retrieved a couple of bottles of beer.

“Are you there?”

“Kitchen.” I shut the fridge door and carried the beer into the living room. “I thought

you’d like one of these.”

“Too bloody right.” Colin collapsed onto the settee, feet on the table, tie gone, shirt

open at the throat.

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I sat beside him and handed him a beer. “Bad day at the office?”

“No, not really. I’m just glad to be home.” He rested his hand on my thigh. “Did you

send that piece off?”

“Yes. It stinks, but I sent it off.”

“I’m sure it doesn’t.” He dropped his head onto my shoulder.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure I’m cut out for just spouting opinions.”

“Wait and see what your boss says. What did you write about, anyway?”

“Islamic extremists in Jordan, since it’s all over the news. It looks like it’s going to

explode.”

“Yeah, I was listening to the news on the radio. It doesn’t sound good.” He took a sip

of beer and set the bottle down. “I know what does sound good.” His hand crept towards the

inside of my thigh and drifted upwards.

I bit my lip. “I can’t imagine.”

“The way you sigh when we make love.” His breath was warm on my skin. His voice

was rich with promise. “Music to my ears.” He palmed my rapidly growing erection. “I think

beer can wait, don’t you?”

* * * *

“I liked your piece. I think you can do this.” John sounded like he was wrestling with

a cold.

I turned the volume down on the television. The midday news showed riots in the

streets of Amman. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.” He coughed, sorted through rumpled paper for something. “But that’s

not why I’m calling.”

Something in his voice. A hesitation, a drag that was nothing to do with his cold. I sat

up, my palms suddenly damp. “Why are you calling, John?” I tried to keep my voice even.

I’d worked for the man for a long time, I knew exactly what he was about to do.

“Jordan. I need you to go there.”

I stared at the floor. My pulse fluttered like a trapped bird, my hand curled into a

tight, cramped knot of bone and sinew.

“Evan?”

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“I’m here.” My stomach plummeted.

John’s words came all in a rush. “I know I shouldn’t ask you this. I know it’s a lot, but

we’re thin on the ground at the moment. Thomas is in Afghanistan, Randall is in China,

Burton’s in DC. I need a good man in Amman. Please, Evan.”

“I don’t know.” I took a deep breath and wondered how the hell I’d tell Colin.

Whether he’d understand. Shit. Just when you think life’s back on an even keel, something

comes along to fuck it all up again. “It’s a lot to ask.”

“Yes, it is. But I’ll make you a deal. We’re looking at having to make some big cuts

here. I get the feeling you’re not all that in love with stepping into Tarquin’s shoes. If you’d

prefer, I can put you on the redundancy list and you can walk away with a nice big pay-off

when you come back from Jordan.”

I had to ask. “How big?”

John laughed. “Ball park? How does three years’ salary sound?”

“Jesus Christ.” It sounded bloody marvellous. Three years bought me plenty of time to

find something less demanding, something local. I wondered if that would be enough to

placate Colin. Going to Jordan wouldn’t involve the same risks as Pakistan. For a start, I

wouldn’t be the only journalist there. I wouldn’t be an obvious target. All I’d be doing was

covering some civil unrest.

“Well?”

“Let me talk to Colin. I’ll let you know tomorrow morning.”

“I can just about wait that long. You need to fly out there tomorrow.”

Well, shit.

“All right. I’ll phone you later tonight.”

I put the phone down and stared out of the window. March was proving to be kind,

with slowly warming days and watery sunlight that brought the daffodils bursting through

the carpet of leaves beneath the chestnut trees. I’d be mad to walk away from it once again, if

only for a few days. I tried to think of how I could put it to Colin, make it sound right. It was

the first time in my career that I had someone else to think of before I made a decision to

head into trouble.

By the time Colin walked through the door, I’d paced the floor for two hours, tried to

find the right way of saying it. Instead, my head was all screwed up, my words scattered all

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over the place. I looked at him sitting on the settee and knew that, whatever I said, he wasn’t

going to be happy.

“Is everything all right?”

Christ. Was I that easy to read? I sat down beside him, took his hand, and traced the

creases on his palm with my fingers. “No. Not really.”

“What’s

wrong?”

“John called. There’s something he wants me to do.”

“What?”

I kept hold of his hand, wanting to hang on to the warmth of it, knowing that when he

knew, I’d lose it. “He wants me to go to Jordan.”

“You said no, didn’t you?”

I swallowed and looked at him. “I told him I’d talk to you first.”

“Don’t tell me you’re actually thinking about it.” His eyes blazed, he withdrew his

hand, his mouth set in a grim line.

“I have to. I’m still employed by the paper.”

He stood up and paced to the window. The late afternoon sunlight found the planes

and angles of his face. “Why? Why do you need to do this? What about all the sodding times

you promised Pakistan would be your one last story? Christ, Evan, wasn’t that enough?

Wasn’t ending up being the fucking story enough?”

“This is different. It’s the last assignment. When it’s done, it’s done. I’m taking

redundancy. John’s offered me a good deal. I don’t have to do this again.”

His eyes blazed. “Jesus wept, you are so fucking selfish. It’s all about the job. It’s all

about that fucking rush. What about us? Is it really that important to you to go? Do you

really want to live with the consequences?”

I knew this argument wasn’t going to end with Colin just storming off. This was a

deal-breaker. My stomach churned and I could hardly bear to look at him, at the hurt and

anger.

“I don’t want to do this. There’s no fucking rush in being told what to do. I’m going

because I have to and because, when it’s over, I won’t ever have to do it again.”

“Why the hell should I believe you? Just when things were getting better, just when

we had our lives back.” His chest rose and fell.

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I wanted to touch him. Instead I sat there, afraid he’d shrug me off. “You have to

believe me. Do you think I want to throw everything away for this? I don’t. Three years’

wages will buy us a lot of peace and quiet, Colin. I’ll make it back in one piece. This isn’t

Pakistan.”

He wheeled around. “What makes you so sure you’ll come back in one piece? Don’t

forget, I’ve seen the news too. I’ve seen what it’s like there. All it takes is one fucking lunatic

with a bomb and that’s the end of it.”

“It’s not going to be like that. Apart from anything else, I’ll be with other journalists.

It’s not like I’ll be on my own. It’s only for a few days. When I’m back, I won’t leave you

again.”

“Bollocks.” His voice was cold. “I spent these last few months putting you back

together. That obviously means fuck all to you.”

My throat hurt. I stood up and put my hand on his shoulder. “It means everything to

me. Without you I’d be a fucked-up mess. Without you I’d be nothing.”

“Without me you could go where you want. You could get your sodding rush.” He

pushed my hand away and turned back to the window. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I do have to. Like it or not, I owe John. Look at all the time he gave us. I have to do

this for him.” I stared at his back, straight, rigid, unyielding. His arms were folded across his

chest as he turned in on himself. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

“It sounds to me like you’ve made up your mind regardless of what I think.”

“I suppose I have.”

“So you want my blessing.”

“Yes.” I waited.

“You can’t fucking have it. If you’re willing to go somewhere like that, regardless of

the danger, regardless of what I think, you don’t need my blessing, you need a fucking

miracle.” He exhaled, a long, shuddering breath. “Pack your bag and get the fuck out of here.

Just go. Please.”

I knew that tone. I knew a door had slammed in my face. No amount of logic,

pleading or common sense would breach that wall.

“Fine.” I’d call his bluff. I’d pack my bag and leave.

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It didn’t take long. I threw what I needed into my backpack, scooped my things off the

sink in the bathroom and, as an afterthought, the photograph on the desk, a reprint of the

photo that had kept me sane in Pakistan. My throat was tight. My eyes stung.

When I returned to the living room, he hadn’t moved. He remained staring out of the

window. I dropped the bag on the floor and crossed the room.

“I will come back.” I kissed the back of his neck. “I promise.”

It was like kissing stone. A statue bathed in sunlight. I ached and hurt like nothing

else.

“I love you.”

He sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “Just go. Please.” His voice was tight,

controlled. I picked up my bag and my car keys and opened the door. I took one last look

back. “Goodbye.”

He never moved. I walked out of the door, closed it firmly behind me and blundered

down the stairs in a mist of tears.

I glanced up at the window before I climbed into the car. I saw nothing but dark,

blank glass reflecting the afternoon light.

* * * *

Sometimes journalists travel in a pack. I’ve heard people say it’s a very fitting way to

describe us. Wolves in search of prey. Writers in search of a story. Similar, I suppose. There

were half a dozen of us on the same flight to Amman, familiar faces and old friends.

“I thought you’d jacked it all in.” This was someone from The Guardian.

“I had. Then the editor made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. It’s the last hurrah.”

“Well, last hurrah or not, it’s good to see you again.”

We finished the last of our beer in the terminal bar and walked towards the gate. It

was strange to be there again. Strange to be walking towards a departure gate. When we

reached the gate, I pulled out my phone, turned it on. There were no messages. Likewise, the

netbook showed no emails. I stared out of the window at the plane and put my phone away.

I don’t know what I’d expected—perhaps an apology, a ‘please hurry back, I miss you’, or

even a final, spirited ‘fuck off’. My guts twisted into a tight knot and the aching silence

settled inside me like a bad dream.

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I rejoined the others, sank down in a chair and joined in the conversation. They were

full of questions about my ordeal and I did my best to give them the answers they wanted

without going into detail. The story had been running in the Sunday edition of the paper,

leaving Upstairs wetting themselves at the sales figures.

I slept on the plane, tired of the conversation. The novelty of being with others had

worn off. I checked my phone now then and wondered why I was torturing myself. I was

knackered by the time we reached Amman. It was evident as soon as the plane pulled up to

the gate that things were different. Tanks, soldiers, the grave voice of the captain telling us to

stay safe while we gathered our things and piled off the plane.

We shared a couple of taxis to the hotel, all of us quiet, peering out of the windows in

search of something different, something we could write about. There were troops

everywhere, guns at the ready. It was nearly midnight and the streets were silent. In the

company of others, I felt no fear. I was numb from missing Colin, hurting from the space

between us.

“You coming for a drink?” The man from The Guardian was already heading for the

hotel bar, along with everyone else.

I glanced past him into the bar, where the usual pack of journalists was propping up

the bar. “Nah. It’s been a long day. I’m going to pack in.”

“You’re losing your touch, mate.”

“I lost it a long time ago.”

I didn’t feel any better while I stared up at the ceiling of my room, the silence of the

night broken by the occasional round of gunfire. A few months ago, the sound would have

had me diving for the floor and cowering beneath the bed. Now, it was familiar territory. A

featureless hotel room, all beige and bad paintings, little bars of soap and shampoo, a coffee

maker that only made one cup, a hotel room that could be anywhere in the world.

* * * *

Amman was one of those cities where, when the sun shone, if you didn’t have

sunglasses, you were fucked. I’d forgotten that when I threw open the curtains. The morning

light, shining on the pale buildings, fucking hurt. I reeled back, staggered into the shower

and washed the last shreds of a restless night away. I made coffee, sat on the bed and looked

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at my phone again. I don’t know why I bothered. There was nothing. I found what I was

looking for in my emails.

I’m sure you’ve been checking your phone constantly. Don’t bother. I won’t be phoning you.

I’m done. I told you once, before you went to Pakistan, that you were feckless. You haven’t changed.

It’s all about the story for you, all about one last schoolboy’s dare. When I think of what we both went

through when you returned from Pakistan I find it incomprehensible that you’d choose to put yourself
in the same, stupid situation. Yeah, I know, different circumstances, safety in numbers but, to me, it’s

the same. I don’t buy your story that you had no choice. You just can’t resist rushing into danger.

Love isn’t enough for you, you’ve got to have that rush.

Well, you won’t find that here. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life watching you and

waiting for you to get bored and go rushing out of the door in search of something else to do. I thought

you were happy with me, I thought you were content. I suppose I didn’t know you all that well at all.

I won’t lie. I’ll miss you. I’ll be feeling this hurt for a long time. If and when you get back, I

won’t be here. This place is too full of memories at the moment and I can’t deal with them. I’ll pack

your things away. When you get back, put them in your car and go. I can’t do this anymore. I need a
clean break.

Good

luck.

I shut the computer off and cried. I didn’t care. I just sat and cried like a child.

* * * *

The first call of the day was a briefing in the hotel ballroom by a member of the British

Embassy’s staff. He gave a very dry presentation on the current situation. That all appeared

to be calm since the imposition of martial law. There was a peaceful demonstration planned

for midday and one of the mullahs was demanding a meeting with the king, to negotiate the

release of several prisoners, including one who’d been convicted of a café bombing a few

months earlier. It didn’t seem a story worth destroying a relationship for. I left the

conference, pissed off, and wandered out onto the street. I needed to walk and the morning

was cool. I turned left out of the hotel and decided to walk around the block to clear my

head. My eyes hurt from the brilliant sunlight.

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I paused at the bottom of the road to watch a pair of kittens playing on the lawn of a

house. I needed some sort of light relief.

“Hello!” A voice from the house beyond.

I glanced up to see a family sitting on the front porch of the house, clustered around a

table, drinking tea.

I waved, then waited while one of them, a man of about my age, walked down the

path. He held out his hand. “Welcome to Amman.”

That’s what I always remembered about Jordan, the hospitality. “Thank you.”

“You here on holiday?” His English was impeccable.

“No. Business.” I showed him my press card.

“Ah, here to cover our ‘troubles’.”

“Yes. I’m sorry about it all.”

He smiled, a regretful smile. “It is God’s will. Come and have a glass of tea with us.”

It was a better prospect than walking around a silent city block. I looked at him and

gauged his trustworthiness. There was an elderly couple sitting on the porch and a couple of

small children. The old Evan Harrison would’ve jumped in without thinking, but now only

the presence of the elderly and children convinced me that there was nothing to fear.

“Thanks. I’d like that.” I followed him along the path. The kittens tumbled through

the grass and skittered onto the porch, earning giggles from the children. A chair was found

for me and I was introduced to the extended family. My host, Abdullah, bade me to sit and

his wife, Jasmine, offered me a glass of tea, hot, absurdly sweet and stuffed with mint leaves.

The old woman, Fatima, passed over a plate of pastries. Out of politeness, I picked the

smallest one. My appetite had done a spectacular nose-dive after reading that email.

We skirted around the troubles. Abdullah’s English was good because he’d been

educated at Cambridge. He worked as an engineer, but his firm had shut the office down for

the week.

“This trouble. I hope it passes soon. There are some bad people here, trying to cause

trouble.”

That summed up the situation neatly. I sipped my tea and tried not to think of Colin.

“It seems pretty quiet to me, especially with all these troops around.”

“The crowds and the mullahs aren’t the problem.” He glanced over his shoulder then

leaned towards me, his voice low. “The trouble comes from the crazy young men. The ones

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who want to be martyrs. They don’t care who they kill. They don’t care who they take with

them. I’ve heard there will be a bombing today. During that march. Not at the march itself,

but somewhere else.” He looked towards the hotel. “Not this hotel, another one.”

“Do the authorities know?” I didn’t want to know where he had come by this

intelligence.

“Yes, they know, and they are running around like fools trying to find out which one.”

He groped for a cigarette. “My father-in-law is with the police. He told us to stay home

today. So that is what we are doing.”

“Wise move.”

“So stay away from big, western hotels. You will get hurt.”

I had no intention of going anywhere near any big hotels. I was there to cover the

march. I’d file my story and fly home to try undo the mess I’d left behind. I finished my tea

and rose. I just needed to get on with things and lose myself in the job I’d come to do.

“Be careful.” Abdullah shook my hand once more.

“I will. Thank you for your hospitality.”

“I’d offer you a kitten, but I don’t think they would like it much when you get back

home.”

I laughed. “Thanks.” I’d probably need some company when I found somewhere else.

Perhaps a kitten wasn’t a bad idea.

I returned to the hotel. It was still too early to be heading off to the site of the march. I

went to the room and decided Colin’s email merited a reply.

Thanks for your email. At least I know where I stand now—not in a very good place. I just

wanted you to know that you’ve got me all wrong. I told you this was a one-time-only assignment and
I meant it. This job consumed my life for nearly ten years. John has been a good boss, he gave us time

to heal when we needed it. I was telling the truth about having no choice and now I’m paying a terrible

price for it.

I’m sorry that things have ended this way. I’m sorry that I can’t find the words to tell you how

much this is killing me, how much I love you, how much I will always love you. You saved my soul

and my sanity. You gave me the happiest days of my life. I wanted nothing more than to live and die
with you.

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I don’t expect any of this will change your mind. It’s clear that you’re hell-bent on believing

your own doubts and fears. I thought you trusted me more than that. I’ll pick up my stuff when I get

back and I’ll leave you a message to let you know the coast is clear.

I’m sorry. I love you.

Goodbye.

I hit the send button before I could change my mind then I cried again.

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Chapter Twenty-Two

We found a good vantage point to watch the march. Half a dozen of us, armed with

cameras, recorders and mobile phones. It was a cool, bright day. I leaned against the wall and

waited. On the opposite corner, a knot of troops, their rifles at the ready, chatted among

themselves and glanced uneasily along the street. Two blocks away, another clump of

soldiers idled while they sat on an armoured personnel carrier that served as a barrier across

the road.

“You all right?” Graham, from a rival paper, and an old friend, waved his hand in

front of my face.

“Yeah, I’m all right. I just wish I was somewhere else right now, you know?”

He fished a bottle of water from his bag. “Yeah, I know. This is like watching paint

dry. You’re not your usual self.”

“I haven’t been for a long time, mate.”

“Pakistan?”

“That and other things. Life’s just a bit fucked-up right now. This is the last place I

needed to be.”

“Woman

troubles?”

“No, man troubles.”

“Oh, that’s right. I had heard. I didn’t believe it, but someone told me you’d changed

horses in mid-stream.”

“Interesting euphemism.” I looked along the street. The marchers were coming.

“So, let me guess. He’s not happy about you being here.”

“Got it in one. He’s done with me.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, ouch indeed.” I hated that big knot of hurt that settled in my guts every time I

thought about Colin. I hated the rush of memories and I loved them. I closed my eyes for a

moment and felt his touch. I saw him bathed in morning light, stretched out beside me on the

bed, and wanted to weep.

“I hope you get it sorted, mate.” Graham patted my shoulder.

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I shook my head. “I don’t think that’s going to happen.” I was glad of the sunglasses.

The marchers’ chants were louder. They were only a handful of blocks away. I picked

up my camera and started to line up a shot. The red battery light flashed at me.

“Fuck.”

“What’s

up?”

“Fucking battery.” It was hard, even with sunglasses, to see. “I’m just going to nip

round the corner into the shade, so I can see what I’m doing. Save my spot.” I picked up my

backpack and slid around the corner of the building, into the chilly, blue shade. I squatted

against the wall and sorted through my bag in search of a spare battery. The marchers were

moving closer, their rhythmic chants echoing along the street. The soldiers across the road

straightened up, shouldered their rifles and tossed their unfinished cigarettes away.

I heard the car before I saw it, the throaty, clotted growl of a dodgy exhaust. My first

thought was that somebody needed to get their car fixed. A small, black pick-up rounded the

corner, two blocks down the hill from me, almost on two wheels. The fan belt squealed in

protest. Someone was in a hurry. I stood up and watched it approach, straight and steady,

driven with purpose. Racing to beat something, racing towards something.

Fuck!

Racing uphill, towards the soldiers and the armoured personnel carrier. The police

had it wrong—it wasn’t a hotel they needed to be looking out for.

The soldiers across the street started yelling. I ran around the corner, heart pounding,

and yelled for everyone to hit the ground.

“What the fuck?” Graham dived to the pavement. We all did, when the soldiers

opened fire on the speeding car. It roared across the intersection, hit a bump and flew into

the air. The soldiers kept firing. I pulled my bag over my head and prayed, braced myself for

the explosion. The tyres screeched and the car continued. The exhaust backfired, soldiers

yelled. Then, moments later, the sickening crunch of metal and glass and a brief, blessed

moment of shocked silence before the bomb detonated with a ground-shaking roar.

The ground really did shake. Shards of glass rained down, tinkling like fairy bells, a

high, sweet counterpoint to the thunder from the bomb. Chunks of masonry scattered to the

ground, spattering like solid rain, like hail. I yelped when a piece thudded off my shoulders,

hitting like a punch. Screams pierced the dusty, horrible silence that followed. I sat up. My

ears sang from the concussion. My hands shook.

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“You all right?” Graham’s skin was white with dust. His eyes were wide.

“I’m good.” I knocked the dust and bits of blasted concrete from my shirt. “Jesus

Christ.” I glanced up the road at what remained of the roadblock. The truck was in flames,

the APC charred and dented. One soldier, blown clear, lay broken on the road. Blood,

gleaming in the spring sunlight, pooled around him, ran downhill. There were bodies and

parts of bodies everywhere.

“I don’t know about you,” I said. “For me, the story stops here. How’s your first aid?”

“Not bad.”

I picked up my bag and ran across the street, feet crunching on broken glass, coughing

out lungfuls of building dust. One or two soldiers reeled about in shock, stared at the

shattered remains of their comrades, and did nothing else. I stopped at the first one, the one

in the road, in the blood. His dark eyes were glazed, staring up at the sky, surprised at what

they saw. A shard of glass the size of a machete rose out of his chest. I knelt, closed his eyes

and moved on.

“Over here,” Graham yelled. “Give us a hand, will you?”

I ran towards him, where he knelt on the pavement. He had his hand, already bloody

and shining up to his wrist, trying to cover a gurgling fountain of blood. The air reeked of it.

The soldier’s chest rose and fell like a struggling bellows. He looked at me with the panic of a

man who wasn’t ready to die.

“Keep your hands on that mess while I get something, will you?”

I heard the comforting wail of sirens in the distance, the footsteps of more journalists

and onlookers coming to help. I braced myself for the rush of warm blood, the stickiness, the

coppery stench that I knew I’d never get out of my skin. “Yeah.” I wrapped my hand around

the gaping wound, watched the blood seep through my fingers. I pressed down as hard as I

dared and ignored the poor man’s moan. I forced myself to look at his face and offer him

some comfort. I smiled and told him that everything would be all right.

I’m not sure he understood. He nodded and, for a moment, rested his head back on

the pavement. His hair was brilliant with flakes of glass.

“Here.” Graham shoved a bunched up T-shirt beneath my hand.

I held it over the wound, pressing down, watching the pale blue fabric turn scarlet.

“Where the fuck are the medics?”

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The street was busy with my colleagues, hurrying between the wounded, dodging

severed limbs and large boulders of masonry. A body, charred to bones, hung from the

smouldering remains of the car. I hoped the bastard was burning in hell and that the

promised virgins had cunts with teeth.

“Coming, at last.” Graham glanced over his shoulder. Ambulances blocked the

intersection, more soldiers and medics, blessed medics with stretchers and knowledge. I

looked at the soldier’s face again. His eyes were looking somewhere else, back in time, at

someone he once loved. His chest rose with a huge, final heave and fell still.

“Oh, no you bloody don’t.” I nudged Graham, shouted, “Hold this, please. We’ve

bloody lost him.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” His voice broke. He replaced my hands with his when I started

pounding on the soldier’s chest. One…two…three…four. I covered his mouth and nose with

my own and breathed for him. Praying, hoping.

Nothing.

I returned to his chest. Counting the compressions, watching his face, watching those

eyes, almond-shaped, dark, empty. “Don’t do this.” My voice caught in my throat. I

returned, wiping blood from his lips, breathing into him, wishing I could give him some of

my life, wishing I could give him a second chance.

Graham shouted for a medic. One finally noticed, ran towards us. Graham spoke to

him in rapid-fire Arabic and the medic listened, dropped to his knees, carried on the

compressions while I kept breathing.

After ten minutes of this, we all leant back, sat on our heels and looked down at what

remained of the soldier. Our faces were white with dust and shock and his blood marked our

skin and clothes—a testament to our futile effort.

“Insha Allah.” The medic closed the soldier’s eyes.

I touched the soldier’s cheek. Some days there were worse things than heartaches.

* * * *

We staggered away from the carnage, back towards the hotel. People stared at us as

we walked in silence along the pavement. I can only imagine how we looked. Neither of us

spoke. There was no point, nothing we could say. I know that I intended to park myself in

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the hotel bar and get blind drunk after filing the story, and I imagine Graham felt the same

way.

A BBC crew cluttered up the broad, shady portico of the hotel. I recognised the

journalist, one of their big dogs. We’d shared one or two drinks in the world’s dodgiest

places in the past.

“Jesus Christ, Harrison. What happened to you?” He looked all cool, clean and bright-

eyed. A hound on the scent of a good story.

I glared at him. Surely he couldn’t be that stupid.

“We were there when the bomb went off.” Graham slumped onto the retaining wall of

an empty planter. “We were there right after.”

“Were you hurt?”

“No.” I wanted a shower and I wanted a lot of beer.

“Can we interview you? We were in the wrong bloody place.”

“No, we were.” I sank onto the wall. “But, yeah. Just buy us some drinks later, okay?”

“You betcha.” He nodded to his cameraman, fiddled with his mic. “So, start from the

beginning, tell me everything. Don’t worry about what you say. We can edit the dodgy stuff

out.”

We told him. The words spilled out between us, recited like we were telling a macabre

bedtime story. Someone handed me a bottle of water and I downed it in one, regardless of

the camera. I stared at my hands and arms, at the soldier’s blood dried to black.

Finally, the interview was done. The BBC man smiled, patted his recorder as if he had

a bag full of pure gold. “I’ll catch you both in the bar later. You can get pissed at the Beeb’s

expense tonight.”

“Thanks.” It was in the back of my mind that people back home would see this. I

could hear Colin’s bitter, “I told you so.” I rose and ran my hand through my hair, sending a

shower of fine glass and dust to the ground. “I need a shower, a rest and a flight home. I’m

fucking done here.”

“We all are,” the man from the Beeb sighed. “Word is that we’re all going to be

leaving, for our own safety.”

“Good. Let the bastards fight it out between themselves.” I reeled towards the sliding

doors, into the bland opulence of the hotel lobby.

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I took a very long shower, waiting until the water ran free of blood before I stepped

out. There was a message from John on my phone, telling me my return flight was booked. I

phoned him back and told him what had happened, then sat down to write my story,

accompanied by a cold beer from the mini-bar. It didn’t take long. I’d already told it once. I

just needed to be more coherent this time. It took a couple of hours. By the time I’d finished, I

was ready for sleep. I only hoped that I’d find it.

I collapsed on the bed, held on to the other pillow and wished it was Colin. The scent

of his cologne returned to haunt me, chasing away the reek of blood. I closed my eyes and

pulled the memories around me like a blanket. At least I could salvage some good out of it

all, I could use what he had given me to make me forget the horrors of the day. I would

always have the memories.

* * * *

By the time I woke up, there was another message from John on my phone. It began

with, “Fucking awesome, mate,” and ended with, “You’ve just added another year’s wages

to your redundancy pay-off.” It was a good way to start the evening. I got dressed, shook off

the last, frail memories of Colin and headed downstairs.

I caught up with everyone in the dining room, sank into a chair and realised I hadn’t

eaten anything since breakfast. I soon put that right. Steak, chips, peas, salad and a massive

piece of apple pie. I was going to get drunk with a will and I needed to line my stomach.

Judging from the number of empty plates on the table by the time we’d finished, it looked

like everyone else had the same intention. We paid our bills and headed for the bar. I turned

my phone off. I was on my clock now, my time.

The bartender had the television tuned to the BBC and we all fell silent when the

report from in front of the hotel was shown.

“Jesus, we look fucking awful.” Graham downed a beer. “I hope you turned your

phone off, because you just know you’re going to get bombarded with calls now.”

“I did.” I wondered if Colin would be one of those calls and doubted it. I finished my

beer and reached for the next one, already waiting on the bar.

We both looked like macabre kabuki dancers, faces white with dust, blood streaked

across our cheeks and clothes. My hair stood on end, glittering with fragments of glass.

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Having said all that, we both gave a good account of ourselves, calmly telling our stories

with the benefit of ten years of experience behind us.

“Damn, you both look hawt,” someone at the bar sniggered.

Graham’s hand curled and uncurled. “Yeah, you’ll see us on page three, dickhead.”

“He’s not worth slapping, mate.” Beer number three was going down nicely.

“Nah, I suppose not.”

The man from the BBC sauntered in with his cameraman. He patted us both on the

back and told the barman to look after us for the rest of the evening. “They love it,” he told

us. “Well done, lads.”

It was hard to smile. We might have told a good story but there was a dead soldier

who was part of it, someone who would never know what a good story the BBC thought it

was. I wondered if he had family.

“I’ll be glad to get out of here.” Graham reached for another beer. “I just want to go

home, collapse in a heap and stuff myself stupid with a good curry, then find a good woman

and stuff her, too.”

I nearly choked on my beer. “Such eloquence. No wonder your work is always so well

received.”

He laughed. “I tell it like it is, mate.” He clinked his bottle against mine. “What about

you?”

“Drive back to an empty flat in Oxford, pick up my boxes and find somewhere to live.

That’s what I’ve got to look forward to.”

“Mate, is it really that fucked up?”

“Yeah. I had an email this morning. Call it a confirmation email. He’s done with me.”

“Ah, man, I’m sorry. That sucks.”

I looked at my bottle and sighed. “Yup, it does. I don’t think the nine o’clock news is

going to help much, either. If I’m lucky I’ll get an “I-told-you-so” email.” I raised my hand,

held up two fingers, and the barman returned with two more bottles. The beer buzz eased

the pain, made it easier to talk about. I could sleep off the hangover on the flight home.

“That’s a bit cold.”

“Nah. Colin patched me back together after Pakistan. He didn’t want to do it again. I

think I bled him dry the first time. I was on anti-depressants, had panic attacks, nightmares,

the whole lot.”

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“Still, if he loves you…”

“He said he didn’t want to live with the worry that I couldn’t live without the rush.

That I’d run off into danger again at the first whiff of a good story. I couldn’t make him

understand that I was done with it, that I’d never leave him again.” I rubbed my eyes. “God,

I love that man and I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do without him.”

“So you’re just going to let it happen, you’re going to let his word be the last?”

“I’ve known him for a long time. He’s stubborn. If you’d seen him, the way he stood

there, all cold and hard like some fucking statue, you’d understand.”

“Bollocks. Go home, rest. Hunt him down. Talk to him. Tell him that’s it, you’re

finished. Chain yourself to his leg. Don’t give up, mate.” He started on his next beer. “You’re

miles from home, you’ve had a crap day, you’re tired and half-cut. Wait, give him a day or

two and go get the bugger.” He sniggered. “Oops, no pun intended. Sorry, mate.”

In spite of everything, I laughed.

* * * *

It was a subdued and hungover pack of journalists who stumbled through Heathrow

the following afternoon. The plane had left Amman at an obscenely early hour. There were a

lot of calls for coffee refills for the flight attendants to deal with. There was also a

corresponding rush for the toilets throughout the six-hour flight. I sought refuge from my

headache in sleep. It saved me from thinking about the long drive back to an empty flat and

confronting the memories there.

We all said our farewells at arrivals. I walked through customs and out to where the

normal crowd waited for new arrivals—chauffeurs holding up signs, anxious relatives,

others waiting for lovers. For a moment I scanned the crowd in hope and entertained the

absurd notion that Colin would be there, relieved and waiting. Of course, he wasn’t. I fished

the phone out of my pocket. Three messages, one from Mum, one from Ellen and one from

John. Mum and Ellen were both relieved and indignant, angry that I hadn’t told them where

I was going, John cackling with glee over the article and the BBC piece. At least I was leaving

my job on a high note. Four years of salary wouldn’t hurt much, either. I’d need some of that

to put a deposit down on a flat.

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I wandered around the car park for a while, found my car and headed home. Rain had

settled in for the afternoon, making the drive miserable, giving my headache new vigour. I

tried not to think about what I was driving back to. All of Graham’s optimistic cheerleading

the night before didn’t seem quite so hopeful in the cold, grey light of day, on the rain-

drenched Oxford ring road. It seemed even less optimistic when I parked my car on the

empty sweep of gravel and glanced up at the blank upstairs windows. Mr Goldstein waved

from the downstairs flat. I picked up my bag and waved back.

The climb up the stairs seemed to take forever. I dragged myself up, shivering in the

damp cold. At least he hadn’t changed the locks. The key still fitted. I turned it and stepped

into the silent, shadowed flat. It had that cold that only comes from emptiness, from no

occupants. I turned on the central heating, dropped my backpack in the hall and wandered

into the living room

Colin hadn’t been kidding when he’d said he’d pack my stuff up. Boxes were piled up

around the table, all labelled. ‘E’s clothes, E’s CDs, E’s books. I stood, hands in pockets, and

stared at them for a long time. A million stabbing little knives hurt far more than a hangover

headache. A great, huge ache uncoiled inside me, black and hopeless. I sank onto the settee,

covered my face with my hands, and wept.

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Chapter Twenty-Three

I took a long, consoling shower and washed the grime of the journey away.

Afterwards, I looked, more in hope than anything else, in the fridge. Apart from a piece of

ancient cheese and an unopened carton of long-life milk, there wasn’t much there. I found a

tin of tomato soup in the cupboard and had that, pushing past the boxes to sit at the table. I

turned on the television to mask the sound of the rain. There were too many memories

wrapped up in rain. I ate my soup, found a bottle of wine in the cupboard and cracked it

open. It was way more potent than beer and, after a couple of glasses, I recorked the bottle,

turned off the television and crawled into bed.

That’s when it really started to hurt. The scent of Colin lingered in the silk and the

linen. I rolled onto my side and almost saw him there, his head on my pillow. I closed my

eyes and touched his early morning stubble, traced the bird’s-wing arch of his eyebrows,

lingered on the soft curve of his bottom lip. His breaths were little warm gusts on my skin. I

pushed the careless tumble of hair from his face, whispered how much I loved him and

turned over to embrace his empty pillow. No longing, no matter how desperate, was going to

bring him back. I was done with crying, done with illusions. I closed my eyes, inhaled the

ghostly remnants of his aftershave, and fell asleep to the constant, whispering lullaby of the

spring rain.

* * * *

I scraped the last, damp granules of instant coffee from the jar and spooned them into

a mug. The rain had moved on and sunlight streamed through the windows and across the

faded rugs. I sat on the settee with the coffee and the handful of stale biscuits that counted

for breakfast and stared at the silent room and the boxes. They nagged at me, reminded me

that I needed to be somewhere else, that I no longer had a right to be there. No doubt Colin

was staying in lodgings at his college. As a lecturer, he was entitled to that.

I picked up my phone and stared at it for a while. He’d be in his office now. I could

phone him there, leave a message, tell him I was back and wanted to talk. It was worth a try.

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I punched in the number and waited. My hands were damp with perspiration, my pulse

fluttered stupidly. I hated the fact he had that hold on me, that I was a bundle of need and

nerves.

“English Department.” A secretary, voice professional and cold.

“Can I speak to Colin Williams, please?”

A pause. “I’m sorry, Doctor Williams isn’t taking any calls at the moment. Can I take a

message?”

“No. It’s all right. Never mind. Thanks.” I rang off.

* * * *

I had no bloody idea what I was going to do. I went to the supermarket and bought a

few groceries. I couldn’t live on stale biscuits and tins of soup. It was horrible walking the

aisles without Colin. It was fucking sad standing at the meals for one section. It was fucking

sad when a simple chore like shopping for groceries could cause more pain than being

stabbed with a thousand bloody knives. I bought plenty of beer.

After unpacking my pathetic bounty of meals for one, I took a beer and headed for the

garden. It didn’t really matter that it was a cold day. The empty flat was much colder. I

found a bench in a patch of thin sunlight and sat down. I’d never been in the garden before.

There’d never been a chance before and, by the time I’d returned home from Pakistan, the

summer had been gone. Everything was dug over, weeded and tidy in anticipation of the

spring flowers. A few crocuses were already fighting their way through the tilled, black soil. I

recalled that the Goldsteins and Colin paid someone to look after the garden because Colin

never had the time or the inclination to garden and the Goldsteins were too old to be digging

up weeds and pushing a heavy mower across the broad sweep of lawn.

It would be a nice place in the summer, plenty of shade and flowers. I swallowed at

the lump in my throat because I knew I’d never see it in the summer. I’d never look out of the

window and see the roses and the fruit trees, because I’d be somewhere else.

“Mind if I sit with you for a little while?” Mr Goldstein, leaning on his cane, hobbled

across the damp grass towards me.

“That would be nice.” Any company was better than my own. Apart from exchanging

a few pleasantries in the foyer, I’d never really spoken to Mr Goldstein or his wife.

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“I think spring is finally on the way.” Mr Goldstein sat down heavily.

I tried not to think of the previous spring, when we’d been busy discovering each

other, when Colin and I hadn’t been able to keep our hands off each other. Bugger,

everything hurt. There was no escape from the memories.

“Yes, I think it is.” I looked down at the empty beer bottle and started picking at the

label.

“It’s good to see you made it back from Jordan in one piece.”

“You

knew?”

“I saw you on the news, son. Then Mr Williams told me. I saw him when he was

packing his car.”

Ouch.

“Oh.” The label wouldn’t cooperate. The paper came away in thin, curling shreds.

“He didn’t want you to go, eh?”

“No.”

Mr Goldstein sighed. “I can’t say that I blame him. After last summer, I can’t blame

him at all.”

My stomach curdled. I wished I’d not bothered with the beer.

He kept talking in his soft, raspy, old man’s voice. “We had a long talk one afternoon,

here in the garden. He was sitting on this bench, just like you are now. You’d been gone a

couple of months. He was very despondent. He didn’t think you’d make it back.”

It didn’t take much for me to see Colin there. I set the bottle down and wiped my eyes.

My throat tightened and I couldn’t even swallow, let alone talk.

“I told him to have faith, that if you were meant to come back, you would.” He smiled.

“I was right. You came back.”

I nodded and stared at my hands. Everything was blurred and burning.

Mr Goldstein patted my shoulder. “I wouldn’t like to see things end between you. I

may be old and set in my ways but it strikes me that if you love each other you should be

together.”

“Yes.” It was hard to keep my voice steady. “I love him but I think that’s as far as it

goes.”

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“Don’t be too sure about that, Mr Harrison. You hurt him. He spent all that time

worrying about you, missing you. When you came home, he put you back together. He

healed you.”

“I know.” Guilt made me want to vomit, curl up in a tight little ball and cry.

“Did you think about that before you ran off to Jordan?”

“No, not really.” I didn’t bother wiping my eyes again.

He sighed. “I know how it is. I was young once. You get ideas in your head and you

just have to see them through regardless of the consequences. Sometimes those ideas blind

you to the feelings of others. It’s easy to forget.”

I nodded. Tears fell on my hands.

“It’s also easy to forgive.” Mr Goldstein’s voice was gentle. He pressed a handkerchief

into my hand. “He loves you. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be in so much pain. He would’ve

stayed here rather than seek refuge from the memories.”

I wiped my eyes.

“Make it up to him. You love each other. You should be together. Beg him if you have

to. He’ll take you back. He loves you. He gave so much of himself to heal you.”

“Do you really think so?”

“You have nothing to lose.” He patted my hand once more and stood up. “Now I

must go. Mrs Goldstein will wonder where I’ve disappeared to.”

“Thank

you.”

“Don’t thank me, yet.” He smiled. “Good luck, Mr Harrison.”

I watched him totter across the lawn and wondered what I needed to do.

* * * *

I didn’t have it in me to drive down there and beg and cause a scene. It would be

fruitless anyway. He would be on his territory. An office wasn’t the place to have a no-holds-

barred showdown. He would never come to the flat. Not while I was still there. Mr

Goldstein’s advice sank in. I needed neutral ground. When the fog finally cleared, I dug my

netbook out of my backpack, opened Google and let the search engine do its thing.

* * * *

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The bed and breakfast we’d stayed in all those years ago was now a posh little hotel. I

hardly recognised the place. The dreadful old-lady furnishings were gone, replaced by

antiques, and a conservatory had been added on to the back of the old Edwardian pile, where

guests could eat Michelin-starred food and bankrupt themselves in the process.

I took my bottle of beer and walked out into the garden. There was a little warmth in

the midday sunlight, enough that I didn’t shiver when I sat down at the table and stared out

across the silent lawn. The receptionist had told me I was the only guest, because it was too

early in the season for walkers and tourists. She’d looked at me oddly when she’d handed

me the key to the suite with the four-poster bed. I hadn’t been about to explain.

I’d left a message with Colin’s secretary, told him the time, the place and nothing

more. The rest was up to him. He’d know, as soon as he saw the name of the hotel, that I

meant business.

A thrush hopped in and out of the dying crocuses on the edge of the lawn in search of

worms. Another couple sat at a far-away table watching a child totter across the grass in

pursuit of the hotel cat. The cat, displaying the usual good sense of the feline species, always

managed to stay one step ahead. I glanced at my watch. He was already late, by a good half

an hour. That was that. My expensive and spectacular plan was about to go tits-up. I was

stuck with a luxury suite, complete with Jacuzzi tub and complimentary bottle of wine, and

no one to share it with. I could sit in the bath, get rat-arsed and indulge in one last cry before

I moved on. I’d drive back to Oxford, retrieve my boxes, and head for Mum and Dad’s. The

lump sum was in my bank account, I could buy somewhere, find a little freelance job to keep

my mind ticking over and start afresh, perhaps with a cat for company. I wasn’t sure I’d ever

want someone else.

I toyed with the key tab, turning it end-over-end on the cold, metal table, the

monotonous tap-tap-tap a comforting metronome to the cold, grey song of disappointment.

I’d always dismissed heartbreak as poetic licence but I was feeling it now, right down to my

bones. It was a nagging, physical weight in my gut, a pain in my chest. My vision blurred

when I looked at my watch one last time and realised I’d wasted an hour sitting in hope in

the hotel garden.

A shadow fell across the table, the other chair creaked, a whisper of heavy fabric, a

pale hand on the table.

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“I’m here. What did you want to say?” Colin’s voice was cold. It twisted that big, old

knife between my ribs.

I curled my hand around the key tab, the plastic digging into my palm, and looked at

him. “I wanted to ask for another chance.” I took a deep breath and ached to touch him. His

dark eyes were veiled. He hadn’t shaved and his hair was all over the place.

“Why

here?”

“Do you really have to ask?” I fought to keep my voice even.

“I’d feel better if we were somewhere more private. I don’t feel like airing dirty

laundry in the middle of a hotel garden.”

“I booked a room.”

“That’s as good a place as any.”

I stood up and walked back towards the hotel and he fell in behind me. It was a start.

We walked up the stairs in silence, past the puzzled receptionist. At least in the privacy of the

room I had a chance. Even if I had to seduce him into taking me back.

I threw the key onto the dresser and sank onto the edge of the bed. Colin sat in a chair,

still in his coat, his legs crossed.

Now that the moment had come, my words disappeared.

“Nice room.” He leant back and folded his arms across his chest.

“Yeah.” I looked down at my hands and took a deep breath. “I suppose I was a bit

optimistic in booking it.”

“Yes.” He traced the ornate Regency curl of the chair’s arm with an idle forefinger.

“So, what have you dragged me here to say?”

“I’m sorry. I meant what I said before I left. Jordan was my last assignment. I just wish

you’d believe that.” I watched his face, looked for signs that he understood, that he was

listening.

“I was certainly right about the trouble. I saw the news.”

“I was selfish and stupid. I should’ve remembered what you did for me. How you

healed me. I suppose I threw it all back in your face when I decided to go to Jordan.”

“Yes, you did. That fucking hurt, Evan.” Finally, a flicker of something. Anger was

better than ice.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve stayed. I should’ve listened to you. I should’ve thought about

you, for a change.”

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His chest rose and fell. “Yeah. That was a kick in the teeth.” The chill returned. Not a

single flicker of emotion, nothing.

I knotted my fingers together and wished for half his self-possession. “It won’t happen

again. There’s four years’ wages in my bank account, my golden handshake. I won’t be going

anywhere like that again. I’m done.”

“Until the next time. With all that money, you can go anywhere.”

I swallowed and stared back. “I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to be with you.

That’s all I want. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

He sighed, looked down at his hand. His finger stopped its wandering. “So, you want

me to give you another chance.”

“Yes.” My heart hammered in futile hope against my ribs.

“You want me to trust you when you say that. You want me to believe that you won’t

pull that shit on me again.”

“Yes. I don’t know what else I can say or do to make you believe me. If it makes you

happy I can get down on my knees and beg because, believe me, if that’s what it takes, that’s

what I’ll do.” I tried to keep the tears out of my voice. “I love you. I can’t say it plainer than

that. I love you, I want to drag you to a registry office, sign that bloody piece of paper and

stay with you for the rest of my life.”

“That’s

it?”

“Pretty much, yes. That’s it. Just know that I would give anything to make things right

between us. Just know I’d do anything for you.”

He stood up and walked towards the door. His expression gave nothing away. He

slipped out of the room without looking back, without a word. I fell back on the bed and

stared up at the silk canopy with eyes that stung. I’d expected more—anger, words, reasons.

Not that. Not just walking away without a word. The knife was huge. It carved through my

ribs, pierced my lungs, made it hard to breathe. I couldn’t even find it in me to cry. I closed

my eyes and sought darkness.

Everything inside me unravelled. I curled up into a tight, painful, stupid knot and

stared at the wall. The clock on the mantelpiece told me I’d spent the best part of an hour just

moping. Time flies when you’re flailing about in self-pity.

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The door opened with a soft creak. I heard the soft thunk of a bag hitting the floor, the

whisper of his coat when he removed it. The mattress dipped when he lay down beside me.

It had to be wishful thinking.

“So,” he whispered, his breath warm against my cheek. “You won’t disappear again.”

I opened my eyes. Colin rested on his side beside me, very close. One hand drifted to

my shirt button.

“No. I won’t disappear again. I’m done.”

The button unfastened, he leaned over and kissed my throat. “Really?”

“Really.”

Another button released, another kiss, feather-light and swift. “You want to spend the

rest of your life with me.”

“Yes.”

He toyed with the next button, slid it through the hole. His lips were soft and warm

on my skin.

I reached for him and he pushed my hand away.

“That’s a promise?”

“Cross my heart and all that.” I ached to curl my fingers into his hair, press my lips

against his, but they were elsewhere, touching the skin where the next button was.

He pulled my shirt from my jeans and unfastened the final buttons with nimble

fingers.”So, when we get back home, you’ll make arrangements with the registry office?”

“Yes, first thing on Monday.” I gasped when his hand slid into my jeans. I tried to

reach for him.

Once again, he eased my hand away. “So we’ll be all legal and everything? Me and

you, civil partnership, all of that?”

“Yes.”

He eased the zip down and ran one finger along the full and quivering length of my

erection. “I think I can live with that.” He flickered his tongue across the tip of my dick. “I

can definitely live with that.”

I would’ve wept with relief if my mind hadn’t been in my shorts. I sought him once

more. This time he didn’t resist. This time, he tumbled onto me, covering my mouth with his

own. I finally got my wish to curl my fingers into his hair, to breathe his breath, to hear the

rasp of his stubble against my skin. His heart hammered against my chest, his pulse sang in

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my veins. His kiss was fierce, hard, biting. He raised his head, breathing fast. “Don’t you

ever, ever pull that shit on me again, Harrison.”

“Never.” I pulled him back, needing his weight on me.

He pressed me down into the yielding mattress, his hands on either side of my face.

“Jesus Christ, boyo, I couldn’t give you up if I tried. I’d rather starve. I’d rather waste away

and die.” He punctuated this with another searing kiss. “These last few days have been hell.

When I saw you on the news the other night…” He took a deep breath and it was his turn to

struggle with words. “When I saw you… I cried for hours. I wanted you. I wanted to hold

you. I wanted to wash the blood from your skin, chase the hurt from your eyes.” He pushed

the hair from my forehead, brushed his lips across my skin. “I’ve never felt such pain. I never

want to feel that again.”

“You won’t. I promise.” I touched his face, brushed my thumb across his cheekbone,

traced the wild arc of his eyebrows.

“I love you, boyo.”

“I love you, too.” I drew him back and silenced him with a kiss.

“I don’t suppose you thought to bring the lube, did you?”

“I packed it in a moment of optimism.” I pulled his jumper over his head, rolled over

and pinned him beneath me. “Why?” I grinned and kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Because we’re not leaving this room, not until after breakfast. Are you with me?”

“Always.”

“You’d better get a move on before I explode.” He moved his hips slowly and

deliberately.

I rolled off the bed, sorted through my bag and returned with the lube. Colin threw

his jeans and shorts aside and took the bottle. “I’m going to roger you senseless, Harrison.”

Jesus.

I struggled out of my jeans and watched him lube himself before he reached for me.

His touch was gentle, teasing as he applied the lube.

“Are you sure you want this?” He pushed my legs apart and up until my feet were

nearly beneath my hips.

I trembled when I looked at him, at the afternoon sunlight turning his skin to gold.

“Yes, oh, God, yes.”

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Colin edged forward, leant over and ran his tongue along the length of my dick.

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

He moved a little further and sucked at my nipples, gently, slowly. Annoyingly

languid circles. I reached for him, seized handfuls of hair.

“Patience, Harrison.” Colin’s voice was steady, teasing. He kissed my throat, my jaw,

nibbled my earlobe. His prick was hard against mine while he moved back and forth.

I was already seeing stars. “Make love to me, please.” I could barely the words out.

He swept his tongue across my lips. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

“You want me to beg?” Every inch of me ached for him.

Colin rested on me. “Yes.” His breath was warm on my skin. He kissed the corner of

my mouth. “I want you to beg.”

It was the least I could do. “God, Colin…please, fuck me. I promise—I promise I’ll

never leave you again.”

“That’s pretty bloody convincing, Harrison.” His dick nudged at me. He planted his

hands on either side of me and lowered himself gently.

I reached for him, took his face in my hands. “I love you.”

Colin smiled. “Oh, all right then. Brace yourself.” He plunged in without preamble, a

fierce, primal thrust that left me breathless.

“Jesus.”

He pulled back until only the tip of his cock remained inside me. My nerves screamed

for release. He leaned over and kissed me. He devoured my mouth with his, seeking my

breath.

I whimpered and clung to him, wanting him, weak and stupid with wanting him.

“Please.”

“Yes.” Colin’s voice was a heated whisper. He pushed in once more. His balls slapped

against my skin.

This time I held on to him, seized his hips, curled my fingers into his flesh.

“Oh, God.” His voice faltered. “Oh, Evan.” Colin began to move, slowly at first.

“Oh, God is right,” I gasped.

“Shut up, Harrison. I didn’t say you could talk.” His voice was a low growl. He

lowered his head and nipped at my shoulder. “You have to promise.”

STOLEN SUMMER

S.A. Meade

206

I grabbed fistfuls of his hair. “What?”

“That.” He pushed into me and nearly withdrew. “You.” Another push, more forceful

than the last. “Never. Leave. Me. Again.” Each word was punctuated by an emphatic thrust.

“I promise.” I could barely speak.

He paused and pulled my hands from his hair. “Say it. I want to hear you say the

words.”

“I promise I will never leave you again.”

Colin pushed my hands into the pillows. His fingers bit into my skin. “You’d better

bloody not, boyo.”

“I won’t.”

He rammed into me again. “Good.” He began to move once more in a relentless,

grinding dance. Every stroke was furious, deliberate and delivered with a low groan. His

hair tumbled over his forehead. I wanted to touch it, touch him.

I tried to wrench my hands free, tried to reach for him. He growled and nipped my

shoulder once more, before returning to my mouth. Each kiss demanded more, more of my

breath, more of my attention.

His breaths escaped in sharp little gusts, echoing mine. We moved together, lost in a

fevered chorus of rasps and moans. The clock on the mantelpiece was a steady counterpoint

to our quickening pace, to Colin’s relentless dance. Skin whispered on skin. My pulse fell into

line with his, his song was in my veins. Wild music, gathering speed, music that only we

could hear, drove us both on.

Somewhere in the midst of all that heat, Colin’s eyes met mine. His sudden smile was

unexpected in the whirlwind of all that fire and passion. He leaned over and kissed me, a

deep, scorching kiss that left me in no doubt I was forgiven. I kissed him back, close to tears

once more.

The stars returned. I cried out when I came and Colin followed, tumbling onto me in a

tangle of heat and limbs. I held onto him while we caught our breath. I stroked his hair and

inhaled the familiar, beloved scent of him.

“I forgive you,” Colin whispered. “In case you hadn’t figured that out.”

“Thank you.” I kissed his tousled hair. “I appreciate that.”

STOLEN SUMMER

S.A. Meade

207

Colin’s fingers curled into my hair. “Good. See that you do. Never forget that I forgave

you, Evan.” His eyes held mine, sparks of triumph remaining. My pulse, finally slowing,

faltered. If I screwed it up again, I wouldn’t get another chance.

“Never.”

* * * *

The little ceremony had been just what we needed. Both of us in our best suits with

white rose buttonholes, standing nervously in front of the registrar while family and

unexpected guests looked on. The registrar said a few words, wished us luck and held the

papers for us to sign. That was all. We kissed and our guests applauded. Outside, they threw

confetti while puzzled passers-by paused and watched. It wasn’t every day you saw two

men getting hitched at the Oxford Registry Office. It was hard not to laugh at my brother-in-

law while he wrestled with embarrassment and bewilderment when Colin and I kissed each

other for the post-ceremony photographs. We had only invited family. We’d told others they

were welcome to come if they liked, just to bring food and a bottle if they chose to come.

We’d decided to hold a little celebration in the back garden. It was something I’d

never had the chance to use before, given that my previous summer had been spent

elsewhere. It was a broad, green haven of trees and shrubs, roses and flowers. We’d invited

the Goldsteins because we shared the garden with them and because they were our

neighbours. Mrs Goldstein, in spite of the fact that she was pushing ninety, brought blini,

and Mr Goldstein brought a bottle of very nice French wine. I was touched and surprised to

see the Beaumonts.

“It’s about bloody time.” Grace kissed my cheek and hugged Colin.

Beaumont shook my hand and grinned. “I’m glad you worked it out between you. I

hope you’ll both be as happy as we are.”

I looked at Colin while he hugged John’s wife. “Oh, I think so.” I couldn’t imagine

being anywhere else, with anyone else. I wanted to be alone with him, for all the fuss to be

over. It was time to get on with the rest of our lives.

Late afternoon sun slanted across the lawn. Ellen’s kids chased each other in between

the shrubs and raced across the grass, squealing, while their mother tried to catch them.

Mum and Dad had already gone, Dad saying he wanted to try and miss the worst of the rush

STOLEN SUMMER

S.A. Meade

208

hour. Brian, still looking stunned and bewildered at the reality of his brother-in-law getting

hitched to another man, had taken the dirty plates up to the flat. Mrs Williams’ taxi had

already come to deliver her to the station. The Beaumonts left early because Grace had to get

up early to take a horse to the races. That left me and Colin and the Goldsteins sitting at the

table in the greening shade of the hawthorn in the back garden.

Colin poured out the last of the wine between the four of us while we watched Ellen

round up her children. She hurried over to kiss our cheeks and say goodbye.

“I’m so happy for you.” She hugged me and ruffled my hair. “So bloody happy.”

I hugged her back. “Thanks. I’m happy, too.”

She smiled and wiped her eyes. “We’ll see you soon, yeah?”

“Yeah.” I watched her walk away, keeping a firm hold on both kids while she scolded

them. Some things would never change.

“Happy?” Colin whispered when I sat down beside him.

“Very.” I kissed his cheek, inhaled the scent of his aftershave.

Mr Goldstein raised his glass. “Here’s to a long and happy life to you both. May you

be as happy as Ruth and I have been.”

“Thank you.” We all clinked our glasses together and drank the last mouthfuls of

wine. The Goldsteins had met just after the war. In a Red Cross camp, after Auschwitz,

where they’d both been imprisoned, where they’d seen their families die. It was a hell of a

way to start a life together.

He rose, stiffly, and helped his wife to her feet. “We should leave you in peace now.

It’s time we had our afternoon nap.” He kissed Ruth’s cheek, his eyes bright, love

undiminished. “Thank you for a lovely afternoon. Thank you for including us in your

celebration.”

“We’re glad you could come.” Colin smiled and leaned against me. I felt the warmth

of him and wanted nothing more than to be alone with him.

We sat in silence and watched the Goldsteins walk towards the house, hand-in-hand,

taking slow, measured steps. She laughed at something he said and he paused, touched her

face and smiled.

I wanted to think that we could be them if we were lucky enough to reach ninety and

enjoy decades of life together.

With a fair wind and a bit of luck, I reckoned we’d get there. God willing.

About the Author

S. A. Meade has recently returned to England after eight years in Arizona, where she
learned to love air conditioners and realised that rain wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
She lives with her husband, son and two cats in one of the most beautiful villages in
Wiltshire and is partial to gin and tonic with loads of ice and lemon.

Email:

sameade1@yahoo.com

S. A. Meade loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website
and author biography at

http://www.total-e-bound.com

Total-E-Bound Publishing

www.total-e-bound.com

Take a look at our exciting range of literagasmic™

erotic romance titles and discover pure quality

at Total-E-Bound.

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