by Zack
Julian walked out to the roadside where Adrian Smith sat waiting in the baggage-loaded Alfa. “See you, Mike.”
They shook hands rather formally. “Yeah, you too, and keep in touch, won’t you, Jules?”
“Sure. Count on it, you lucky sod.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Catacombs Catch
Freed of the constraints of boarding school, Mike found school life at Quintin Kynaston easier on his soul, and he buckled down to the A-level regimen of zoology, geography, and art with an emphasis on photography. He managed to escape monopolization by Jim Attridge, but did put in a few nights a month when he was able. It wasn’t desperation for the money, but it came in useful for those extras that made life bearable: records; albums on cassette tape; a weekend night out with Jules, who had become a weekly boarder at Highgate, boogieing at the Witches or maybe down the Marquee to a live band.
The Christmas vacation and the New Year ushering in 1976 came and went pleasantly enough apart from a slight run in with Will. The two were half-lying across the width of Mike’s bed, heads propped against the wall, in the late gloom of Boxing Day afternoon. They were bored and their conversation desultory. Mike wasn’t interested in the goings on at what he now thought of as Will’s school.
“You remember Pendelton?” Will suddenly blurted out.
The question sounded fraught with hidden meaning. Mike narrowed his eyes suspiciously and murmured cautiously. “Mmm, why?”
Will sniffed lightly. “Keeps saying how much he misses you.”
“To you?” Mike sounded incredulous as he tried to imagine a boy who would by now be fairly senior speaking to a junior like his brother, unless it were to bark out an order.
Will shrugged carelessly. “To anyone who’ll listen, actually. Never stops gurning on about you.”
Mike said nothing, alarmed at the thought of Eric moping so publicly. And so long after his leaving as well.
Will rotated his head against the wall to eye Mike, the tiniest cheeky smile hovering at the corner of his lips. “Why would he miss you so much?”
Mike managed a nonchalant shrug.
Will’s smile widened. “Were you being naughty with him?”
“No!”
“I only ask,” Will persisted, “because he was caught red-handed, so to speak.” He made a low squelching sound with his lips. “You know, gobbling another chap off.”
Mike went for boredom. “Really? Well I hope said chap enjoyed it.”
Will choked back a laugh in his throat. “Well, I just wondered if that’s why he missed you so much. Mum’s always said you’re clever with your mouth—”
“Just fuck off, will you! She means with words, and not kindly either.”
“Ooh-oh. Was that a sore spot I just touched?”
“Look, go and bore mum and dad—”
“It’s okay, Mike, really. Your secret’s safe with me.”
Mike didn’t like the condescending pat on the thigh or the forefinger to temple snappy salute Will gave as he rolled forward on the bed and jumped to his feet. His wink before closing the door behind him made Mike feel even more uneasy. “Honest, totally safe with me.”
Mike considered it extremely unlikely his brother would keep his promise at school, but reluctantly discarded the idea of throttling Will to death. His last thought on the matter was a stab of jealousy. Eric Pendleton having it off with someone else, and damn it to hell, obviously he hadn’t been able to ask Will with whom.
Oh I love to love, but my baby just loves to dance, he wants to dance, he loves to dance, he’s got to dance. But my baby just loves to dance.
Tina Charles’ hit burbled at a low volume from the club’s speakers. It was still early for the Catacombs crowd and Deejay Chris Lucas hadn’t yet started to wow the Earl’s Court disco bunnies with heavier 7-inch soul, funk, or foreign disco imports. Mike sat at the bar on a high stool and watched a couple of young giggling queens boogie on the varnished brick floor to the bubbly music. Their silhouettes swayed between the square brick pillars that held up the low half-vaulted roof of the subterranean club.
He was early. Jim had suggested the Earl’s Court venue for a change and a better class of punter. “Yee mean kangaroo dicks,” quipped Donny, referring to the district’s itinerant population of Australians and New Zealanders. Mike could now distinguish his fellow rent-boys from the regular disco-goer by their demeanor, by their dress, and the way they held themselves aloof but watchful, constantly assessing the customers, wearing sweet smiles that never reached hard, calculating eyes. Visiting Arabs preferred the byways of Mayfair, but could be persuaded to taste the delights of West London from time to time. As Donny put it poetically, “They may be tarkin shite, but A-rabs hev the dosh, gadgie, an if they wants a feck at least they ain’t tee hung.”
Like the other trade dotted carefully apart from each other around the confines of the Catacombs, Mike flicked his eyes across at the entrance to clock every new arrival for potential. In singles, doubles, and bigger groups they came, filling the club rapidly, most out with boyfriends for a good time or with pick-ups made at local pubs like the Coleherne (too leathery-heavy-denim for Mike on the one occasion he’d actually managed to get through the door without being ejected as “too cute”) or the Boltons. A few moments after a bunch of five rowdy lads thrust their way through the increasing number of dancers on the small floor, a lone figure materialized and hesitated in the archway which gave access from the steep, narrow steps down from the street. He looked to his left and then back toward the bar.
Mike’s ears strained back involuntarily and his eyes shot wide in surprise. He stared. His heart missed a beat and then thumped painfully. Surely he was wrong? His body jolted to an electrical thrill that chilled him to the bone. And then a flush of heat rippled through his frame and bloomed in his full cheeks. There was no mistaking the strikingly handsome face, nor the expression of mutual surprise in the eyes of Manners, school prefect and encapsulation of perfect youth.
And then distress rolled over Mike and he suffered embarrassment for them both. He felt as if it were his fault that the wonderful Manners had been exposed. Surely the senior from his former school would ignore him. Would flee, throwing out imprecations of his character being maligned. But no. As if drawn by a magnet, and with his eyes still locked on Mike, Manners came over to lean on the bar next to him. He could hardly believe it. A boy he had admired and desired from afar and never dreamed might be, well… like ( gay—say it! ) stood here, beside him. And he was talking above the increasing music volume. Mike felt pinned to his bar stool, tongue-tied, breathless, and fairly stupid. He knew he must have a vapid grin plastered over his face, the expression of a junior in the presence of a senior, the old social shackles of a private school yet in place. What was this blond-haired vision saying?
“I know it’s corny,” Manners half-shouted, “but fancy seeing you here.”
“I— I had no—”
“—idea you might be, well—”
“Gay?” The word came out as though he’d been dared.
They both laughed nervously. Manners waved at one of the harried bar staff. “What are you drinking?” He leaned close to speak more privately. “I say, Smith, isn’t it? Aren’t you a bit young for this place?”
He actually remembers my name! “Aren’t you?” Mike retorted.
They laughed again, less nervously this time. Manners managed to order two Cokes. That’s what Mike thought until he drained the last of his previous lemonade and took a swig to discover it was laced with something.
“Rum, just a single shot.”
Mike nodded. He wished Manners would sit, but there was no spare stool at the now packed counter. In part he judged some of his excitement at seeing Manners as being due to his “civilian” clothes—neat jeans, skin-fit collar shirt, expensive looking leather jacket. It was strange seeing him out of school uniform. It felt private, as if Manners had dressed this way just for him. The proximity of a distant hero, his incr
edibly physical presence at Mike’s side, it made him buzz. Is there any chance this might go somewhere? And then a horrible thought struck him. He flicked a glance at his watch. Near eleven. At any moment Jim would come in, probably with Donny in tow, and the perfect school prefect would discover the real reason for Mike being in the Catacombs this drizzly autumnal evening. The thought of sex had another effect, well, hardly another, the same, only with… did he? I mean, does someone so serene, so cleanly handsome actually do it?
Mike really had no idea how to carry this forward. He felt out of his depth in the presence of the older boy, who had all the best attributes of young Pendelton, only better filled out, with a more attractive face, noble nose, pale lashes enclosing pale… too dark to see, but Mike made them blue pupils and invented a more packed crotch. Again, in the dim light it was hard to make out detail. He felt callow in the presence of royalty. And then Jim Attridge made up his mind for him by swinging in through the entryway.
“Do you want to dance?”
The words burst out before Mike could stop them, and he stood up. Manners swallowed hard and then nodded, suddenly the shy one. With a characteristic determination that the surprise appearance of Manners had short-circuited for a while, Mike grabbed his arm, feeling for the first time firm muscle beneath the light leather jacket and polo shirt, and in a moment they were both boogieing shoulder and hip with each other and several more boys grinding away on the uneven disco floor.
As Jim strolled around the edge of the dance floor toward the bar, Mike tried to avoid his gaze but couldn’t avoid an exchange of glances over Manners’s shoulder. Jim raised one eyebrow, an indication of approval. Mike knew he had to get out as fast as possible, but without Jim noticing. Otherwise he would make a move on Manners to discuss terms, and that was something that could not happen. Besides, his dance partner, far from keeping scrupulously to himself, seemed to have closed in so their knees touched, and thighs, light brushes of his hands on Mike’s hips, butt. If he weren’t concerned about Jim he’d be in a state of rut-arousal, as some plonker at Fabian called it.
As Deejay Chris Lucas raised the volume and pace, Mike realized he was spending a lot of time looking Manners up and down and hoped the returned looks indicated the same level of interest. He thought their eye-locked gazes carried a meaning he dared not interpret in case he was mistaking what he saw there. Mike saw Jim drinking something, and then he spotted the skinny form of Donny slinking through the crowd toward Jim. Mike closed in on Manners as he saw Jim straighten his posture in preparation to come across and butt in. Manners locked eyes, smiled with sexy laziness, and enfolded Mike in his arms. The bulges in front of their jeans ground together and Mike thrilled to feel an incipient erection pushing against his own.
“Shall we get out of here?” he shouted into Manners’s neat ear. “Go somewhere quiet?” He was terrified of coming across as pushy or desperate, and he had no idea where they might go, just to get away before Jim could fuck everything up. He couldn’t let Manners see he was nothing more than a cheap whore. Not tonight. Jim backed off when he saw the two of them so closely entwined. He’d be pissed off, but Mike didn’t care. Jim didn’t own him. As the pimp turned back to the bar, Mike took the initiative. He tugged Manners away through the dancers, passed under the arch, ran up the stairs to the street. Fortunately his pick-up didn’t seem to mind leaving so soon after arriving.
“Night, boys,” said the guy manning the ticket desk crammed into the club’s tiny entrance. Outside, the earlier wintry drizzle had turned to full-scale rain. Away from the immediate threat Jim represented, Mike felt a bit helpless, so he was happy when Manners took over. He led the way down Earl’s Court, Mike thought to the tube station, but at the next intersection Manners hailed a cab which fortuitously popped out from the side road. They dived in the back, and Manners gave the cabbie an address somewhere nearby off Old Brompton Road.
“My folks’ place,” he said with a happy laugh and a hand wipe across his damp brow to clear the flop of hair from his eyes. Mike leaned back on the headrest and laughed as well, though he didn’t know why. Just because he felt a whoosh of inexplicable joy course through his body. “They’re away visiting my mother’s family for a few days, so we’ve the place to ourselves. That’s if…”
He trailed off. Mike flailed at his own unruly locks where they dripped rain into his eyes. “Yes, if it’s all right with you, er, Manners.”
“Hey, look. I can’t keep calling you Smith. It’s Kevin.”
“Kevin? That’s nice.” He felt so stupid, clumsy. Of course it was nice; anything associated with the godlike Manners was nice. “Mike.”
“Mike or Michael?”
“Mike’s fine. No one calls me Michael.”
“I’d rather. I like Michael.”
Mike smiled. “Then I’ll be Michael for you.”
As Kevin glanced up over the partition to see where the cab had reached, he casually threw out, “Do you know how fab you are?”
Mike went weak at the knees and was thankful to be seated. “Fab?” he echoed faintly. He could honestly say he was pleased in himself. He had no self-esteem problems, but fab? Beside Mann—Kevin he felt grubby and very ordinary.
“Yes. I’d say beautiful, but that’s so girlie.” Kevin glanced over at the dark hunched form of the driver, and quickly turned back to take Mike’s left ear between his teeth and gently nibbled.
Mike’s cock shot up stiff as a rod on the instant, the unexpected touch was so erotic.
“If you don’t mind back there, lads. Put you out here if you don’t behave.”
Kevin broke away with an easy laugh. His voice held the natural tone of command that came so easily to public school boys with their inferiors. “Just the next on the right, into The Boltons, and third house on the left.”
That wasn’t too difficult to miss. There were no buildings immediately on the right, just a large oval of greenery with the rising spire of a church farther down and the faint catch of gray London stock bricks through the foliage, the big houses on the other side of the green.
Kevin paid off the cabbie with a fat tip, for which he received a sarcastic smile and a clipped, “Thanks, darlin’. Have a good night, wontchya.” Kevin returned the grin good-naturedly, and Mike so envied his smooth suaveness. It made him feel like a gauche school kid in the face of the grown up young man. But at the same time, as Kevin took his elbow and led him through the high wrought-iron gate in the balustraded wall, he thought he might be the elder in mind if not in age. I’ll bet he doesn’t sell his body on the Dilly some nights. And then immediately the thought spoiled the moment. He felt a creep of guilt and fear at what this paragon of manliness might think should he ever discover Mike’s dirty little secret.
Chez Manners, an imposing four-story mansion, was joined at the hip to a mirror-identical residence. The ground floor stood eight steps above the sub-basement level and reminded Mike very much of Fabian’s structure, except this was larger and all in Palladian white stone, corner quoins, and classical entablatures above the windows and under the protruding top cornice. He refused to let the exterior’s grandeur or the interior’s opulence intimidate. To Kevin it was home, and yet Mike sensed the slightest change in his companion’s demeanor to an edge of unease. It was as though passing through his own front door, he no longer knew how to proceed with what had promised to be a seduction of the younger by the experienced elder. Mike followed Kevin through a door at the end of a dark passage running alongside the grand staircase into a kitchen that would have accommodated the Smiths’ not inconsiderable Swiss Cottage sitting room and left some to spare.
“Would you care for a beer, Michael?” Kevin said as he swung open a massive Westinghouse fridge set into an alcove beside a bewildering array of modern cooking appliances. The words sounded a bit formal.
“Thanks.”
Kevin took two frosted bottles from the depths, cranked the caps off in a wall-mounted device, and each fell neatly into a receptacle below wa
iting for the purpose. He handed a bottle to Mike. Kevin took a swig from his and Mike followed suit. He choked a moment on the lash-back of foam and then, not quite knowing what to do with himself, copied Kevin in leaning back against the large central-island work top. For a long moment only the thrumming beat of rain on the windows broke the silence between them. The sound made Mike look sideways at Kevin’s classic profile and he saw raindrops sparkle amid the blond dome of hair. One ran down the strands and dropped onto the ridge of Kevin’s aquiline nose. Mike breathed out and tentatively leaned in. Kevin almost twitched back, but relaxed as the tip of Mike’s tongue licked at the runnel. He loosed a half-laugh, more an exhalation through the nostrils and turned a little toward Mike.
“I’ve wanted to do something like that a long time.”
Kevin frowned. “Really?”
“Mmm, but you were a senior and a prefect, and, oh, in another house. Untouchable.” As he spoke Mike slid an arm along the counter to lightly encircle Kevin’s slim waist. “And then you were a leaver. Gone.”
“Michael, I wish you’d said something.”
But Mike could see in his eyes how impossible that would have been.
“Hah, I know. I would never have done anything about it. Not then or there. Perhaps you’re pushier. Got anyone special at school?”
“I’m not there any more.”
Kevin took a second to absorb this. “Why?”
“I was fed up with Highgate.” Mike shrugged, unconcerned.
They stood uncertainly, silent for moments, each chugging back some beer. Then Kevin cleared his throat and spoke quietly. “I meant what I said in the cab.”
Mike looked to his left at Kevin, their eyes only inches apart. Mike felt his breath tighten. So slowly the movement hardly seemed apparent, Kevin bent his head as he leaned closer, licking his lips. Mike stood frozen, aching with desire, and then loosed a convulsive gasp as Kevin’s teeth again bit softly at his left ear lobe. His beer clinked as he placed the bottle on the marble top. He dropped the freed hand to Mike’s waistband and left it lightly resting there, while the other came around to cup Mike by the nape of his neck. Fingers softly rubbed the skin under the short neck hair.
