Hunter and Morgan: Gatecrasher

by H. K. Nightingale

  The door downstairs thumped open, and Morgan had the photo back in the box and the lid on in a single breath. What should he do? Put it back in the cabinet and pretend he'd never opened it? No. Hunter would notice. Okay. Honesty. Always the best policy.

  He put the shoebox on Hunter's desk and scrambled back to the box of filing, taking out the first folder just as the office door opened.

  "Hi," he said, not looking up. "Nearly done."

  "You got that open," Hunter said. Morgan thought there was… something, in his voice. But he wasn't sure what. He glanced up; Hunter was already on his way to his desk, and the shoebox.

  "Yeah. I have a knack with filing cabinets. That looked personal, so I left it for you to take care of."

  Hunter ran his fingertips over the lid of the shoebox. He didn't open it. "Thanks. I'll–"

  "There's plenty of room in the desk drawers. They're all lockable."

  "Right. Thank you. Morgan–"

  "And voila." Morgan shut the no-longer sticky drawer and brandished his empty archive box. "All done." He glanced at the big, old fashioned clock he'd found and put up over Hunter's desk. "Five oh five."

  "I was wondering–"

  "I'll be off, if that's okay." Morgan put the archive box in the stack with the others and picked up his rucksack. On a whim, he went back to Hunter and firmly held out his hand. "It's been a pleasure. Good luck with Poppy and Ozzie. I know you'll figure it out."

  Hunter opened his mouth, shut it again, and shook his hand.

  "Um, thanks," he said.

  And that was that.

  Chapter Six

  Move-U occupied a small shopfront on Headingley High Street. It used to be an off license, but now it was a state of the art estate agents. It had an interactive display unit in the front window which allowed customers to flick through a stream of tempting properties. It was one of Morgan's duties to clean the display each morning after it had been mauled by local drunks.

  By Friday he had come to really hate the drunks of Headingley. Not only were there bodily fluids smeared freely over the window, but someone had decided to write 'my new crib' under the display unit with a Sharpie, along with a drawing of a spurting cock and balls. And when he finally managed to get the ink off, it became apparent that they'd scratched their delightful design into the glass with something sharp before they'd coloured it in. Morgan poured his bucket of soapy water down the drain, stuck the alcohol spray into his apron pocket and traipsed inside the shop, peeling off his rubber gloves. "Wendy, we'll need to get someone out to get the scratches out of the window. Do you have anyone on the books?"

  "No, Morgan. We don't have a French polisher or an animal behaviour consultant on the books either." Wendy thought she was really good at sarcasm. She wasn't. She was irritating and dismissive and God, Morgan hated this gig.

  "Well, I've done the best I can," he said. "I'll get on with the rental applications, shall I?"

  "Well, d'uh," said Wendy, with a savage tap of her mouse. The printer started whirring in the corner.

  Morgan put his cleaning stuff away, washed his hands in the tiny break room and snuck to his desk before Wendy could try to stun him with her wit again.

  Only seven hours, and he could go home, go to bed and never come out again.

  The door swooshed open and a woman came in. She was dressed in a skirt (short but smart) and jacket, with a white blouse. Her hair was a warm blonde, straight and glossy, brushing her shoulders. She wore sandals with an impressive heel and cute straps around the ankle. Her nails were very red. Expensive-looking glasses perched on her nose, narrow with thin gold frames.

  She ignored Wendy's, 'Hello, can I interest you in any of our lovely properties?' and headed straight for Morgan's desk.

  He'd seen her somewhere before. Couldn't quite place where.

  "Hello," he said. "Can I–"

  "It's Morgan, isn't it?" she said.

  "He's just admin," said Wendy. "But I can–"

  "We met on a first aid course," the woman said and thrust out her hand. "Jennifer Lane."

  Oh, okay. Caleb's friend.

  Morgan shook her hand. "Um, hello."

  "How are you?"

  'Fine. You?"

  "Fine. I've been trying to get hold of your friend Caleb."

  "Really?"

  "He's your flat mate, I believe?"

  "That's right."

  "Is his mobile phone working?"

  For those of us who aren't blocked. "As far as I know."

  "Oh." She looked crestfallen.

  Morgan glanced at Wendy, who had her eyes fixed on her computer screen but was listening so hard he was surprised her ears weren't bleeding with the effort. "I could ask him to call you, if you like?"

  She looked at him over the top of her glasses. "So you think his phone's working fine calling out, hm?"

  Morgan shrugged. "I don't know. But I can ask him. If you want."

  "Has he, um, said anything about us? I mean, me?"

  Wendy got up to walk to the printer, giving Morgan a hard stare on the way.

  "The thing with Caleb is, he's big on honesty. He's had some bad experiences in the past. You might not think it, with that whole bad boy thing he has going on, but he's surprisingly vulnerable. With that in mind, shall I ask him to call you?"

  She bit her lower lip and nodded. "Thanks. I'd appreciate it."

  "Now, you'd better go before you get me fired," he whispered. "I'm in for a bollocking as it is."

  Jennifer glanced at Wendy as if she'd forgotten she was even there. Her dom-lipsticked mouth curled up in a snarly sort of grin. "No you're not, sweetie," she whispered back. "Leave her to me." Then in a louder voice she said, "Thank you, Mr Kerry. I'll speak to your colleague."

  Half an hour later she left with an armful of information about the upcoming executive office development and left a dreamy-eyed Wendy calculating a future commission that would never happen.

  Morgan could see why Caleb liked Jennifer.

  After the longest day in Morgan's working life (and considering he'd worked in call centres, that was saying something), he dragged himself up to the hot, stuffy living room in the flat and threw himself face down on the sofa. He groaned. His back ached from the very unergonomic chair; his legs ached from hours spent at the photocopier; and his head ached from being in Wendy's company all day. At least Mark would be back on Monday. It wasn't so bad when Wendy had two targets to throw her crass, unfunny comebacks at.

  Caleb got home an hour later, as his current assignment was at the University of Huddersfield. lucky bastard. Uni gigs were always a walk in the park: they didn't have time to train you in their labyrinthine systems, so you got all the easy work; they understood the importance of good coffee and everyone was on flexi-time so no-one expected you there before nine. Caleb stood by the sofa with his hands on his hips, considering him.

  "Stop with the judgy face," said Morgan. He'd managed to roll on his side and turn the TV on to watch Pointless, but nothing else.

  "You don't have to go back next week, you know. Just tell Pearl they're taking advantage."

  "It's not so bad," said Morgan. He muted the TV and closed his eyes.

  "Yeah, right. Obviously. Honestly, you're hopeless." Caleb stomped off to the kitchen. "Tea?" he yelled.

  "Thank you," Morgan yelled back.

  Caleb returned with two mugs and a bag of Thornton's chocolates. Morgan hauled himself upright to make room for him on the sofa. Caleb sat, opened the bag and offered Morgan one. "Dorota's birthday," he said. "Everyone in the office got chocs."

  "Seriously?"

  "Yup. I think she has the hots for me. I got a muffin as well."

  "That reminds me. Jennifer came into the office today."

  "Jennifer?"

  Morgan bit into his chocolate with a snap; his mouth filled with salted caramel. It was the nicest thing that had happened to his mouth since… well, for a long time. "She wants to talk to you. I think maybe even apologise. I said I'd pass on
the message."

  Caleb's eyebrows scrunched up into a scowl.

  "You don't have to," said Morgan.

  Caleb offered him another chocolate. Strawberry cream this time. God, if Caleb would just spend the rest of their lives feeding him chocolates, maybe they'd make a great couple after all.

  "Here's the deal," said Caleb. "I make us omelettes and oven chips, you go and run yourself under a cold shower 'til you're awake, and then we'll go out."

  "Go out?" whined Morgan. "Why would I do that?"

  "Because you've been moping all week and it's not healthy."

  Morgan grunted.

  "Also, I just offered to make you an omelette, and my omelettes are fabulous." That was actually true. "And I shared my chocolates with you."

  "I still don't want to go out."

  "And yet, you are going to go anyway. It's okay. I won't take you clubbing. It's drag quiz night at The Bridge."

  "Why must you be like this?"

  "Get in the shower, and you can have another chocolate."

  Morgan's eyes narrowed. "I hate you."

  But he got in the shower anyway.

  The Bridge was unequivocally gay, unapologetically camp and unavoidably loud. Caleb was wearing a clingy purple skirt and false eyelashes, along with glittery purple nail polish, an old black and grey Black Sabbath t-shirt and a pair of sparkly silver Converse. It was enough that he counted as drag, which got them in half price, but muted enough that he just looked like a damn pretty boy. Morgan hadn't done drag since that one time at college. It didn't really appeal to him: he'd felt clumsy, all elbows and knees and stompy platform boots. Caleb just looked gorgeous and as at ease as he ever did. They found seats at a table with a couple Caleb knew from somewhere or other, and Morgan supposed it might not be a bad night after all.

  "This is Morgan," said Caleb, as they sat down.

  "Oooh, your flatmate," said one of the pair; his skin was like polished mahogany, his eyes huge, deep brown, with an appealing innocence. He had a wicked smile, too. He was wearing something with sequins that Morgan was pretty sure was a full-length evening dress. "Welcome, Morgan. I'm Darius, and this is Harlequin."

  "Hi." Harlequin looked small, a bit fragile next to Darius' broad-shouldered bulk, but there was something fierce about him, an intensity to his eyes and the set of his mouth. His hair was half blue, half white - a soft white, not harsh bleached-blond - and he had one blue eye, one purple. Presumably contact lenses. Disconcerting. He wore a crisp white shirt, rolled neatly half way up his forearms, and a waistcoat.

  "Hi," Morgan said. "Nice to meet you."

  "Male pronouns tonight," Harlequin said to Caleb.

  "Gotcha," said Caleb. "Drinks, everyone?"

  Harlequin asked for vodka, and Darius said he'd help Caleb at the bar. Morgan asked for an orange and soda.

  "Driving?" asked Harlequin, when the others had gone to the bar. Morgan wondered how the hell Darius could walk on those heels. He was tall to start with, but Morgan guessed they'd add at least four inches.

  "I don't drink much." Never, in fact.

  "Fair enough." He was well spoken but there was a definite twang to his voice from the other side of the Pennines.

  "I'm majos." For some reason it was easier to own up to that than have Harlequin wondering whether he was a recovering alcoholic or something. Morgan got the sense that he wasn't the type of guy to judge anyone.

  "Oh, I see. Darius is, too. I once saw him move a beer mat right up to the other end of the bar." He tapped the side of his head to indicate that Darius hadn't been using conventional methods to do so.

  "I haven't seen him at Coven."

  "Oh, Darius doesn't bother with all that bullshit."

  Morgan glanced over his shoulder. Darius and Caleb were standing together at the bar, shoulder to shoulder. Caleb's arse looked amazing in that skirt, but Darius was something else.

  "I'm a lucky boy," said Harlequin.

  "Oh, I wasn't–" Wasn't what? Checking out Harlequin's boyfriend? He totally had been. "You been together long?"

  "Year and a half. I met him here, first term at Uni. He's local, I'm from Manchester." That explained the accent. "So, one year and nine months. You and Caleb?"

  "Four or five years? But we're not–"

  Harlequin's thin lips stretched into a smile. "Oh, honey, I know you're not."

  To Morgan's relief, the drinks arrived then.

  Caleb had bought him a mocktail full of watermelon and strawberries that was actually quite nice, although he could have done without the sparkling umbrella that nearly poked him in the eye. A queen arrived shortly afterwards with quiz sheets and glittery pens with unicorn horns on the end.

  It was a weird kind of evening: every round of the quiz ended with a drag act on the tiny but well-lit corner stage. The winning team of each round got a prize from whatever act was on: a round of drinks; a lap dance; being hauled up on stage as a stooge for a magic act. Morgan was relieved at the end of every round they didn't win.

  And then they did.

  He glared accusingly at Caleb, who was by that time full of mimosas and clapping his hands in delight at the prospect of Morgan's imminent public humiliation. Morgan was considering whether he had time to escape to the toilets when Harlequin put his hand on Morgan's arm and said, "Just leave it to Caleb."

  The next queen to take to the stage wore a twinkly, knee-length tube dress with a sequin union jack on the front. She had a huge, ginger wig. Ah. Ginger Spice. So…

  Oh God, there were four of them in 'Team Rainbow' as Caleb had dubbed their team. Plus one of her. Five Spice Girls. Morgan's stomach churned with panic and possibly an overdose of strawberries.

  "The back of the stage is dark," Harlequin said. "Leave Caleb in the spotlight. Follow my lead."

  Numb with terror, Morgan let Harlequin take one hand, Darius the other, and next thing he knew he was on the stage, behind Ginger Spice. But Harlequin was right. The back of the stage was out of the spotlight.

  The spotlight that Caleb was standing right in the middle of.

  "Just sway and snap, honey," said Darius, with a grin.

  The music started, Morgan took his cue from Darius, imagined he was someone else and began to sway and snap.

  "Yo, I'll tell you what I want, what I really really want," sang Ginger Queen.

  "So tell me what you want, what you really really want," Caleb sang back.

  The crowd went wild.

  Caleb's singing was a lot better than his whistling and, exhibitionist that he was, he blossomed in the spotlight. Morgan was so transfixed by his performance that he barely remembered to die of embarrassment when it came to his turn to sing.

  Later, when they'd received their applause and left the stage, Caleb decided Morgan was probably Sporty Spice and thus destined for a career in the doldrums, making meaningful Northern Soul albums and finding happiness in ordinary life. Apparently Caleb was Posh. He'd shack up with David Beckham and live a life of fashion and glamour.

  Then Caleb went off with Ginger Spice to drink more mimosas at the bar.

  "Don't think too badly of him for abandoning you," Harlequin said. "He's had a tough time of it lately."

  "You mean the thing with the married couple?" Morgan said. He could tell instantly, from the way Harlequin's brow arched, that he'd said the wrong thing. Shit.

  "I was thinking more about his mam," said Harlequin.

  Caleb didn't have a mother. Not anymore. She'd kicked him out when she'd found out he was gay. It was about the time of the warehouse incident. One of the things that Caleb and Morgan bonded over, both of them rejected because of who they were, one way or another. Caleb by his mother, and Morgan by just about anyone who was scared of magic. Which was most people, when faced with magic like his. "What d'you mean?" Morgan asked Harlequin.

  "Shit, man, not my place to tell you. I thought you knew."

  "She found him," Darius said, and then, to Harlequin, "Don't kick me under the table, sweetie, I think he sh
ould know."

  'It's not for us to say."

  "So you think. I think our boy needs all the help he can get."

  Morgan glanced over at the bar, where Caleb and Ginger Spice had their tongues down each other's throats.

  "Really?" Morgan said.

  Harlequin and Darius nodded in unison.

  Chapter Seven

  Morgan got a cab back from the Bridge and arrived home around one. Caleb stumbled in at three. Morgan heard the bathroom door slam, followed by loud retching noises.

  Great.

  He got out of bed and went to check on him. Caleb was slumped on the floor by the toilet, looking miserable.

  "I'll get some water," Morgan said. "See you in the living room when you're ready."

  A little while later Caleb joined him on the sofa. He was wearing plaid shorts and a shirt Morgan was pretty sure had belonged to his last boyfriend. His face was scrubbed and his hair tied up.

  "Wasn't sure you were going to make it back," said Morgan. "You seemed to have scored with Ginger."

  "We had creative differences," said Caleb. He sipped at the water Morgan had got him. "Shit, I feel terrible."

  "You'll be okay."

  "I'm sorry I ditched you for a drag queen, Morg."

  "I'm a grown up. I can get home on my own."

  Caleb shrugged. "I wanted to cheer you up."

  Morgan considered that for a moment. He supposed he did feel marginally better. He'd liked Harlequin and Darius. And the memory of Caleb singing Wannabe with that rich, clear voice was really rather grand. He felt proud.

  "You did," he said and gave Caleb's arm a little rub. "What about you? Before the creative differences, I mean."

  Caleb gave him a wry grin "It was okay, I guess."

  Morgan desperately wanted to ask about his mother. But now wasn't the time. Maybe it wasn't up to him to ask. It's not like Caleb was slow to share when he wanted to. He'd tell Morgan, when the time was right for him. But still it stung hard that he'd been struggling with something so big and hadn't come to Morgan with it.

  "I think I might call Jennifer tomorrow," Caleb said. "D'you think that would be completely disastrous?"

  "It might be good to have a conversation. Get everything out in the open. Closure, I guess?"