Alan Edward

A Boy for Pleasure I

Short stories, first set

Ivan Vladivich Slotski, KGB Colonel, intellectual and dilettante, addressed Major Peregrine Chinstrap-Chinstrap, ex-Brigade of Guards, expatriate and ex-spy.

"We are of course entirely in your hands, Chinstrap."

They went on looking at the photograph on the table between them. It affected each of them differently. Slotski sat slightly back, hands folded, ostentatiously at ease. Chinstrap kept picking the photograph up and putting it back down; he shifted on his seat and twitched a great deal.

"Four years," said Chinstrap. "Four years, twenty trips, and we’ve dangled every bit of rough trade in the Eastern bloc in front of him. I’ve scoured the gutters of Moscow, Slotski – drag queens, clones, bears, the whole raft. A bachelor, never married, no woman friends, I just had to be right, he just had to rise to the bait sometime. I’d just got to thinking that perhaps he was incorruptible after all. Is this vodka watered?"

"You need a clear head today. Well?"

Chinstrap picked up the photograph again. "How did you get it?"

"From his wallet. It’s a copy; he won’t know anything.."

"Mmm. No wonder the rough trade didn’t appeal to him. You’re sure this isn’t a relative? An illegitimate son, even?"

"We’ve checked, of course," said Slotski, impatiently. "Well?"

"Well – you can see. Barely pubescent, I’d say. Blond, unbelievably pretty. You have no doubt invited me here as a connoisseur on such matters. Well, Docker has taste, no doubt about that. You don’t have his phone number, do you? Not Docker’s of course. I mean –".

Slotski reached out and moved the vodka bottle out of Chinstrap’s reach.

"Okay, Chinstrap, be quiet and listen."

"No, you listen, Slotski. I don’t have to bow and scrape to you any more. I’m way ahead of you, I know what you’re planning. Well, forget it. It won’t work. The machine’s much more sophisticated now than in my time."

"I’m glad to hear it," said Slotski dryly.

"Incidentally, what did become of little Mischa in the end?"

"He became too enthusiastic. We had to send him for therapy. Now, if you could stick to the point -"

"I know more than you think, Slotski. I do happen to know that Docker will be in Moscow next month for one of your so-called arms reduction conferences – no, don’t bother to deny it – and presumably your plan is to introduce some ravishing little page-boy into his room, then you’ll set your damned cameras rolling. Well, we’re not stupid – or at least we’ve learned a few tricks in recent years. Not only will you fail to get your dirty video, but you’ll lose the cooperation of the entire Department and set the whole programme back for years. Not that it isn’t a joke anyway. Now, excuse me. I’m going to find some real vodka, not this cat’s pee."

Slotski gently pressed him back into his seat.

"Chinners, my old friend, your one-way ticket back to London is still waiting for you in my in-tray. I believe that, in London, some people are very keen to have conversations with you. You may, perhaps, be less keen."

Chinstrap sat down again, having repossessed the vodka bottle; he poured some and drank it, making a face.

"As you rightly say, Comrade Chinstrap, Comrade Docker will be in Moscow next month and will stay at the Metropole. His visit, by sheer chance of course, will coincide with a major exercise by the Young Pioneers. During the visit Young Pioneers – very young – will be stationed in the foyer and in all the corridors of the Metropople. We will take care, of course, that Docker sees Pioneers on duty at the airport, railway stations, and similar. You follow?"

Chinstrap refilled his glass, saying nothing.

"Between now and then the whole of Russia will be scoured for the most perfect and attractive specimen of Soviet boyhood in the age-group of the boy in this photograph. Then the chosen boy, in his Pioneer uniform -"

"Ah yes, these very short shorts 3;"

"Please. In Pioneer uniform, he will be stationed in the corridor along which Docker will pass to his room. Like all the others, he will salute smartly as Docker passes. And that’s all."

"That’s all?"

"All that Docker will know about. Of course, we’ll monitor his reactions. Hidden sensors located at forty-three points in the vicinity will record his pulse rate, blood pressure, pupillary size, sweat gland activity, hormonal secretions, galvanic skin resistance 3; but I won’t bore you with technicalities. If we get a positive result – well, that’s the end of stage one. And then we plan stage two, maybe in a month, maybe in six months, who can say? We have time."

"You’re a cunning devil, Slotski, I’ll give you that. But why tell me about your evil machinations? Just where do I come into it?"

"You, my friend, as an irreproachable judge in such matters, will have the major part in selecting the fortunate child who will do the Supreme Soviet this glorious service. We shall advertise widely, on television, radio and the newspapers, for a boy aged, say, between 12 and 14 and of an appearance suitable to be presented internationally as a perfect specimen of Soviet boyhood and thus to render an outstanding service to his mother country; we will award the Pioneer Red Star on completion of the exercise. The response will naturally be tremendous. Then, on an appointed day, you will assist in making the selection. It is all quite simple, you see."

"I hope so," said Chinstrap. "Though I’m getting a bit old for this sort of thing; it will probably finish me off."

"I hope not. And do your best, Comrade Chinstrap, won’t you? Please don’t contemplate any little 3; jokes. Because if it doesn’t work – when Docker goes back, you go with him. You understand, I hope?"

"I’ll do what I can."

* *

The day was sunny; Chinstrap, sipping water, was pale and composed; Slotski’s secretary – the third member of the selection panel – was huge, craggy, and impressively equipped with files and a clipboard.

Outside, the crowd thronged the grounds of the Summer Palace and spilled into the streets and squares around – thousands of shy-eyed blond elves all accompanied by mothers of impressive size and determined bearing.

Looking out, Chinstrap grew paler.

"Good God, it’s going to be like a beautiful baby competition; the mothers of the losers will riot, and then what will become of us?"

"They are good Soviet citizens, Comrade Chinstrap-Chinstrap," said Ludmilla, the secretary, sharply.

"And the guard is adequate," said Slotski. "We will have the subjects in groups of ten. You will pick the best of each, then we will have the best in, also in groups of ten, until the winner is found."

"They’re all too fully wrapped," grumbled Chinstrap. "You can’t see anything under these woolly hats and furs. You Russians don’t recognise summer even when it comes."

"Each child will be undressed completely before being brought in," snapped Ludmilla. "The mothers have been sent their orders. We must ensure that the child who will represent our glorious Soviet Socialist Republic is altogether perfect."

"Thank you, Ludmilla," said Slotski. "The guards are at present assembling the first group. They will enter on the left. Chinstrap, you will indicate your choice, who will go out of the door to the rear and wait. The remainder will exit to the right. Excuse me."

A guard had entered, looking unsettled. He whispered to Slotski.

"Ah, I fear that all is not totally under control," Slotski said. I think we must wait a few moments for order to be restored, then we can proceed."

Outside, order failed to be restored immediately. The crowd of mothers and pretty offspring pressed forward into the courtyard, each mother urging that her own blond pixie was the most perfect example of boyhood in the length and breadth of the land. And with every mother more eager than the next to be of service to the Supreme Good, each such example had been decisively stripped from top to toe, peeled like a banana, every single item he had been wearing stuffed into the capacious maternal handbag . Outside, two mothers even lifted their nude, squirming elves on to a low wall and called on all beholders to witness that here was the most exquisite specimen of pubescent boyhood conceivable, sure to be chosen by the Soviet for its exalted purpose.

"He can turn cartwheels!" cried one of the mothers. "Do it!" The boy wheeled twice, pink-faced, and the spectators cheered.

"He can dance and sing!" shouted the rival mother.

The boy capered shyly and sang a few notes, and the crowd cheered even more.

"Mine can make spunk!" yelled another mother, lifting her wriggling son up to join the other two.

"Ah!" shouted the crowd.

"Oh, Mamma!"

"You shall see, all of you!"

"Oh, I cannot, Mamma – not here!"

But, holding the youngster in an iron grip, the large peasant woman set to work vigorously. Working quickly both behind and in front, she soon had her wonderfully pretty son manifestly ready for her attention, to the spectators’ delight. Upon which she took a firm grip and set about her task diligently. "Faster, faster!" cried the bystanders, and in a moment her efforts were rewarded. The youngster’s wriggles became more enthusiastic; then he closed his eyes, his whole body jerked, he screamed and 3; the woman held up a slightly sticky palm. The crowd applauded wildly.

But her rivals had also been at work, and even more determinedly. After a moment or two, another of the boys quivered all over, gasped, shrieked, jumped up on his toes – and another palm, even sticker, was held up. The crowd roared.

"More, more!"

"Me, me!" shouted a hundred youngsters – and for some time the crowd did not lack entertainment. And even these pubescent innocenti denied a song-and-dance routine on top of the wall were nevertheless able to avail themselves of the relentless vigour of a stout mid-European hand, till each vied with the other in a decibel-war at the moment of squeal-studded limb-convulsing delight that made even the old walls echo and give back such delectable sounds as they had never heard or given back before, or would again.

"Can’t you keep that lot quiet?" said Chinstrap irritably. "It simply goes right through my head."

"We know all about your head," said Slotski unsympathetically. "Next group, please."

In spite of the chaos outside, the selection process was under way – Ludmilla poking and prodding, Chinstrap making an occasional note on his clipboard.

While, in the garden, scores of naked Perfect Specimens leapt, wrestled, jumped in and out of the fountains. A hose was commandeered, and even the bicycles of the Red Guard were hijacked and ridden in extravagant circles through the lawns and flower-beds.

With such entertainments the long afternoon passed and, at length, The Choice stood before the panel. He saluted, blushing slightly with pride. Chinstrap, who had been allowed the vodka bottle again, took a swig and passed his hand in front of his eyes. He had thought they simply didn’t make them like this – not in Russia, not anywhere.

Slotski explained to the boy some of his duties.

"Will I have to stand in the corridor like this?" asked the youngster curiously.

"Certainly not," snapped Slotski. "Well – not at first, anyway. Ludmilla, see if you can find him a Pioneer uniform, then we can have the full effect – so to speak."

"Oh, look," said The Choice, running over to the tall window. "They’re all leaving now."

The battlefield was indeed almost deserted. Some youngsters were leaving half-dressed, dirty and dishevelled. But many others were taken home on foot, by bus or underground, innocent of the smallest stitch, clothes still zipped in the maternal shopping bag, their young owner’s quivering mortification sacrificed to maternal disappointment, pride, displeasure, or all three. It was a day no-one would forget.

Especially not The Flower of Soviet Youth, splendidly arrayed at last in a Pioneer uniform with the shortest shorts to be found, with white socks, blue tunic and cap, and red scarf. Smiling brilliantly, he saluted again.

Even Slotski permitted himself what, on the face of another man, would have been a smile.

"We can’t lose, Chinstrap," he said, staring at the boy. "We just can’t lose."

* *

NEWS ITEM. Major Crocker Blocker-Docker, British military envoy, collapsed and died in the corridor of a Moscow hotel yesterday evening. A member of the Young Pioneer Corps, who was stationed in the corridor at the time, raised the alarm. Major Blocker-Docker is believed to have been suffering from a weak heart. Item ends.

His hands trembling so that he could scarcely hold the taper, the old innkeeper lit seven candles and placed them in the points of the tall gothic windows, then murmured a Hail Mary and crossed himself.

"Return, Mr Parker," he said earnestly. "Return – before it is too late."

"I’m awfully sorry, I can’t do that," said the young man. "At least, not until Thursday. It’s a five-day ticket, you see; there’s the reduction."

The old man crossed himself again, lit another twelve candles, hung a crucifix and a rosemary wreath over the door, and stuck a sprig of garlic behind each ear.

"Listen – what’s that?" asked the young man.

"The coach – the coach!" cried the innkeeper. He started tugging at the young man’s arm. "Pray, Mr Parker, be seated in the circle with your head pointing to the east and your feet to the south and recite five Paternosters while tracing the square within the circle with the third toe of your left foot. Only that will protect you."

"No, but I say, though." The young man pulled back a shutter and peered through. "I mean, how jolly convenient. Is there a request stop outside, by any chance, or do I just stand by the side of the road and wave?"

"But it is doom, doom and disaster to all who travel in it," sobbed the innkeeper.

"My dear fellow, you are speaking to a man who has travelled daily on the eight-fifteen from Epping to Liverpool Street. Don’t worry about me."

But the old man was kneeling in the circle with his eyes closed, his arms crossed, and an illuminated version of the Athanasian Creed balanced on his head, so Parker drew the heavy bolts, opened the front door, and stepped out into the forecourt.

Now he could hear the hooves clearly and could see the coachlamps swaying in the darkness, growing rapidly nearer, their light flickering along the tall tree-trunks on either side of the road. Then, at a shout, the horses were drawn up and the coachman, an indistinct figure above the circle of lamplight, cried out, "Who would travel in this coach?"

"It is I, Jonathan Parker."

"We have been expecting you, Mr Parker. Please enter."

"Thanks." Parker got in. "All the way, please."

A shriek of maniacal laughter, the chime of harness, a rattle of hooves and the coach swept off into the night, leaving behind the lights of the village and the inn. The voice of the old man, raised in fervent prayer, faded rapidly. Onward, still onward, the road narrowing until two great pillars were passed, then the road grew steeper and more twisted until at last the horses’ hooves clattered on cobbles, slowed, and stopped. Parker, peering though the glass, could see the hulk of a vast building, lamps lit on either side of a recessed doorway. He picked up his bag and dismounted; instantly the coachman cracked the reins and the coach sped off round the angle of the building and out of sight. Parker shrugged, went up the steps and pulled the bell. Soon a faint light shone through the keyhole, and he heard what might have been the rattle of a bolt from some distance away, but again there followed silence. Parker put down his bag, filled his pipe, and lit it.

Unexpectedly the door creaked and swung inwards.

"My lord?"

Parker stood quite still; his pipe fell from his mouth and shattered on the step.

"Allow me, please 3; Alas, my lord, it is broke."

"Broken," said Parker, "The pipe is broken. But thanks very much, anyway. It was just that – well, one expected an aged harridan of inexpressibly fearful aspect, or a one-eyed dwarf, or the like. It was the shock, you see."

"I’m sorry, my lord."

"Oh pray don’t apologise. You’re a page or something, what?"

"I am not ‘something’", came the dignified reply. "I am Mikhail, page to the Count, at your service, my lord. Please to come in."

"Thanks very much." Parker picked up his bag. "It’s awfully decent of the Count to let me stay; shall I see him now?"

"The Count sends his regrets, my lord," said the boy, pausing in the wide hall; he cast a glimpse towards the windows from which moonlight flooded the staircase and the landings. "Tonight my Master the Count is abroad."

"Oh dear. Well, it can’t be helped, I suppose. So many people on holiday around this time of the year, eh?"

"Ah, though you are sad that you do not see the Count yet you make the joke. This is the stiff upper English lip, yes?"

"Perhaps," said Parker. "You speak remarkably good English, if I may say so."

"An Englishman stayed here once before. He taught me 3; many things," said the boy, lowering his eyes.

"Where is he now?"

"He is no longer with us, alas. Shall I show you upstairs?"

"Yes, please. You are rather young, are you not, to be all alone in this whopping great place?"

"I am alone," said the page, "But I am aged thirteen years and one moon. You must ask no more questions. Follow."

The boy turned again at the top of the staircase. "You would prefer dinner first, my lord? I will show you to your room afterwards."

It may have been fatigue, or the red wine that Parker had tasted too liberally at the inn, but as dinner progressed everything in the great panelled dining-room grew oddly unreal, detaching and distancing from ordinary time and locality, something perhaps diffused around the story-book child in the velvet suit moving to and fro among the rich furnishings, his slim fingers noiselessly handling the silver, the moon at the tall windows touching the ends of his long fair hair and reflecting from the highly polished buckles of his shoes.

"More wine, my lord?"

The boy turned to the sideboard, presenting a pair of neat, tightly-clad hips; then he turned with the decanter, his limpid eyes met Parker’s and he smiled. "Shall I pour, my lord?"

Parker swallowed and nodded, then he quickly gulped down most of the glass and the boy refilled it. But the boy did not speak again; at further questions from Parker he simply smiled and shook his head.

"Follow," he said, when Parker had finished. They went up another flight of stairs and then Parker was shown into a dim, tapestried room, its windows slightly open, the long curtains lifting a little in the breeze from the dark outside. The boy lit a candle, placed it at the end of the great four-poster bed, and withdrew to the door.

"I hope you sleep well. Will there be anything else, my lord?"

Parker moved across to the door and partly blocked the boy’s exit. He cleared his throat and coloured a little. "I – I say 3;"

"Yes, Mr Parker? I remind you of your fag at Eton, is that it?"

"By George!" stammered Parker, his eyes wide. "How did you guess?"

"The other Englishman always began that way," said the boy, moving swiftly round Parker and through the doorway. He slid off into the dark and his voice came again from a distance. "Tonight I may call on you, Mr Parker, or I may not – who can say? Leave the window open, Mr Parker, leave the window open."

Echoing in the corridor, the words faded; Parker shrugged and closed the door. "Cloak and dagger stuff," he muttered, going across to the window. He shut it, then after a moment’s thought pushed it open again. "But he’s wrong about one thing," he mused aloud. "He’s not like my fag at Eton; he’s prettier. I wouldn’t have believed it possible." He undressed and blew out the candle. "You won’t sleep tonight, Parker," he said, "Not a blessed wink."

But the wine had been good, and Parker must have slept for some hours, because when he woke the moon stood high over the castle and its light had contracted to a narrow bar under the sill.

"Mr Parker?"

Startled, he half sat up. On the end of the bed was perched Mikhail, clad in a long nightgown; he swung his legs around, knelt upright, and smiled broadly. "I have been here for some time, my lord. You sleep deeply."

His eyes sparkled; his complexion glowed even more radiantly with youthful health and vitality than on the previous evening. His cheeks were slightly flushed; he laughed again. "Am I not welcome, my lord?"

Parker struggled slowly upright to a sitting position; he felt oddly weak and it took him a few moments. The boy leaned forward a little and brushed Parker’s cheek with his fingers. "Wakey-wakey!’ says the English Mr Sergeant-Major, yes?" he said, his strangely mischievous manner contrasting peculiarly with his dignified bearing of the evening before.

"I seem to have had a – little too much wine, perhaps," said Parker, his voice a little slurred. "Or to have 3; I say, that’s odd."

He put a finger to the side of his neck; he withdrew it, looked at it, turned to the boy with slowly widening eyes – then was at once wide awake and had leapt out of bed, away from the boy, and stood with his back to the far wall, glaring at him.

"Why, you little beast!" He took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his neck. "I mean, this is a bit rotten, really it is! Of the Count one might expect it, but of you 3; For heaven’s sake, how many of you are there?"

The boy shook his head, smiled, then slid off the bed and came towards him.

"Keep away from me!" snapped Parker, edging along the wall.

"No, my lord, I am but young and require no more tonight, I swear it. I have had what I want, and now it is your turn, my lord."

He reached out and took Parker’s hand; Parker had stopped where he was, prevented from retreating any further by the angle of the wall. He said indignantly, "My turn? I am not one of you, make no mistake about that!"

"You misunderstand." The boy, running on the tips of his toes, arms outspread, returned to the window and then, turning to face Parker, he swiftly grasped the hem of his nightshirt and pulled it high above his waist, his gaze still fixed on the man opposite him. Then with another quick movement, he pulled it over his head and threw it on to the carpet. Eyes again mischievously alight, he jumped up and down on his toes, laughing, leaping, palms vigorously slapping his bare hips. "Look, Mr Parker, look! Do I look like your Eton boy now? Do I, do I? Did he come to your room naked too? Did he, did he?"

Parker stumbled forward and reached towards the boy, but he ran around the man and jumped up and down on the bed, trampolining up and down on the springy surface. "Answer, answer!"

"No, I shan’t. Come down!"

Parker made another rush, but the boy flitted effortlessly on to the bedside table, then to a tall chest of drawers. "Try again, Mr Parker. Follow, follow!"

"No – I give up." Exhausted, Parker sat down.

"Then I win. Stand up and hold your arms out," said the boy imperiously.

Parker did as requested; the boy leapt again and Parker caught his light weight easily, holding him for a moment before lowering him on to the broad counterpane. The boy’s arms had twined themselves around Parker’s neck; he slowly pulled the man’s head downwards, though not this time towards his lips, and this time the man was unresisting.

Now the moon had slid completely out of the trees but the wind was rising again and the shadows of leaves and branches flitted hither and thither about the room, half-blending with the dark locks of the man, quivering and leaping with the slim nude form of the boy, fragments of light at intervals catching a pair of spinning legs, feet pedalling the air, then the swift jack-knife flexion of the boy’s knees and hips that came with his soft shuddering cry, and then the legs and body dropping until at last both figures were still, the shapes of the leaves moving across them as lazily as before, the light on the carpet once more diffuse and unbroken.

Parker gradually rose to a sitting position; the boy opened his eyes and grinned at him. "Honour is satisfied, Mr Parker? The quid pro quo, as they say on the playing fields of Eton."

I doubt it; perhaps your friend was an Harrovian," said Parker darkly. "I say, how long have you been at this lark?"

The boy looked up towards the ceiling and considered. "Not so long," he said, "Just over two hundred years, I should say. And it’s not a ‘lark’."

"What is it, then? And excuse me if I sit some distance away."

"Certainly, Mr Parker. We of the Undead are most accommodating. Indeed, my Master the Count was once esteemed a great and good man; he was a Bishop of the Church and Superior of a great monastery. It was to this monastery, my lord, that I had come as a pupil, and it was there I would soon take my vows. But it came about that the Count – it would not be for me to say why – became much attached to me, and I to him. By night we made love, but all was soon discovered and the Count was discovered and put to death. But he had already become one of the Undead, and it was not long before he visited me again and made me, too, one of their number. Thus even in our living death we are not separated; by day we lie side by side in the cool vaults of the castle, travelling only by night on our separate ways."

"Ugh!" Parker rubbed his neck again. "You really are a pair of rotters. But what gets me is that – one of you lot should look like you do. Dammit, a young demon shouldn’t go around looking like he’d just escaped from the other place; it shouldn’t be allowed."

Mikhail giggled. "That’s what they used to say at the monastery; they used to say that I was a temptation to the monks. You know, the monks used to fight to hear my confession, because they got to whip the boys naked for their penances. I used to wonder why they all hated me so much; I was innocent in those days. Ah, the penalties of being pretty!"

"You’re not only a beastly little vampire, you’re vain with it," said Parker.

"No, I’m not. Anyway, after they killed the Count they were going to lock me in a tower away from the monks’ eyes, or even kill me – but I didn’t mind, because I knew my Master would come soon. But it will be light in an hour, and I can’t go back like this. Throw me my shroud across, will you?"

* *

The priest rose at last, drew the shutters and turned up the lamp. "You tell a strange tale, my son," he said, "Yet much is, I think, untold."

Parker remained silent.

"Truth to tell, I had half expected you would visit my modest presbytery today," the old man went on. "Strangers call at the castle but rarely; those that do often find themselves in need of 3; spiritual counsel. Shall you stay longer?"

"I don’t know. I really can’t decide."

"Pray tell me more about this creature of the – of the Undead, my son," said the priest in a low voice. He crossed himself. "What manner of being was it, in what guise did it appear to you?"

Parker looked down and shook his head. "I’d really rather not – if you don’t mind."

"I understand, my son. How, then, may I be of help to you?"

Parker spoke hesitantly. "You see, padre, I find it very difficult to believe that any being can be completely evil, completely – well, depraved, especially when the appearance of that being – well, conveys absolutely the opposite impression. If you see what I mean."

"You talk in riddles, my son," said the priest, smiling, "Yet perhaps I do see a little. Perhaps this is the oldest tale of all, the beautiful maiden desired and beloved of a vampire who is now herself of the Undead. Would I be correct in assuming that this 3; visitant is indeed young, is beautiful, perhaps?"

Parker swallowed. "Absolutely, padre."

The old man poured some brandy into a balloon glass; he peered into the depths of the pale golden fluid as if seeking to know the wisdom of the ages, then he drank it.

"And, my son – correct me if I am mistaken – perhaps you would now know if this creature is for ever lost and beyond all hope, or may yet be redeemed?"

Parker nodded eagerly. "Yes, that’s just it. Absolutely."

"You too, my son, will have some brandy?"

"Thanks."

"It is said that the tale of the vampire is closely intertwined with that if the succubus, the daemonic female who come to a man at night and who is – forgive me, my son – penetrated by him. And it is further said that if the vampire is to be redeemed by the legendary pointed stake, it is not the heart that the stake must penetrate, and that the stake is not that which is fashioned from wood. Soda, my son?"

"Thanks. Decent of you."

Time passed. The old man trimmed the lamp and, a little sadly, toyed with his scapulars. Then Parker turned bright red and choked on his brandy.

"Ah, you understand me, perhaps?"

"Yes, by George, I believe I do!" Parker rose in a state of some excitement, then sat down again. "Yes, but- "

"Yes, my son?"

"Nothing. I’ll give it some thought, that’s all."

The priest rose and accompanied Parker to the door. "Always remember, my son – in life there is death, yet in death there is life. God is distant, yet he is very near. Through the tear-drops of our repentance the world appears small, far away, and faintly plum-coloured. That is everything, yet it is nothing. Walk swiftly, my son, the night grows cold."

"But, padre, just supposing that the vampire is in fact -"

"Yes, my son?"

"Nothing, padre."

"Then God go with you, my son."

* *

The last cloud moved from in front of the moon and cold light streamed in at the open window; the curtains that had been blowing into the room in the night breeze swung gradually backwards, then hung perfectly still; the whispering of the leaves died, the calls of the shy creatures of the woodland faded, and then all of the forest was silent. Soon ivy rustled and, an instant later, a lithe white figure dropped on to the carpet.

"Got you, by George!" Parker has risen from concealment, had pounced, and now pinned the wriggling form to the carpet. "Ha!" he cried in triumph, "You did not suspect that I would keep myself awake by drinking black coffee and reading back numbers of the Times Educational Supplement, did you?"

"Ah, the cunning of you English!" said the boy in a muffled voice. "Very well, my lord, let me up; I shall not try to get away."

"I’ll see that you don’t, you young devil!"

The boy sat up slowly and rubbed his nose; he looked doubtfully at Parker, who still held his arms tightly.

"This – this tackle you learn on the playing-fields of Eton, too?"

"Yes, and a jolly good thing I did. So I think you’ll agree that tonight it’s my turn first, eh?"

The boy nodded. He looked tired and a little pallid. "Very well, Mr Parker."

Parker helped the boy to his feet.

"This, what you call the rugby tackle, you will teach me, yes?"

"Some day." Parker took hold of the boy’s long garment. The boy raised his arms and it was pulled off and dropped to the floor.

"The same again, my lord?"

Parker shook his head. He picked up a small jar, fiddled awkwardly with it, then he leaned forward and whispered in the boy’s ear. The boy turned his soft eyes up to meet Parker’s and nodded. Parker took both the boy’s hands and led him to the bed, where he paused and lit the candle. It’s rays fell on the boy’s pale body; Parker looked down and smiled faintly. "Ah, I can see that my request pleases you."

The boy nodded again. "Maybe, my lord, you will do something for your friend Mikhail too?"

"Well, we’ll see that can be managed; a chap always liked to do the decent thing," said Parker. "Over you go, then."

The boy lay face-down on the wide bed, the single candle flickering alongside. Through the stake cometh redemption. Miserere, Miserere. Yet it entered the young body almost without effort, sliding as between the exquisite softnesses of a maiden’s breasts, then nestling further inwards, tightly gripped in the warm dark. The body moved only slightly, writhing as though the more readily to accept its penance, then rising to accommodate the hand slid below, then moving a little more, lifting, dropping, until at last the moon was rising again, growing steadily brighter until the room was awash in waves of blinding white pulsing ever higher until it exploded into a million fragments and the smaller hips underneath were also flung convulsively upwards by their own inner detonation as pillow-muffled treble sound escaped into the room again and again. Then the slivers of broken light went spinning away into the dark, and it was silent and the moon was hidden again.

After a long time the boy asked, "It was good, my lord?"

"It was super."

"And for me also it was 3; super."

Parker had rolled over on his back; the boy knelt upright on the bed and looked down at him; he smiled. "Now I think it really is my turn, Mr Parker."

"Eh?" For a moment or two Parker had some trouble in focusing; he saw the boy’s eyes fixed on him, growing bigger, his outlines shimmering, becoming indistinct. He blinked, and the boy’s form grew a little clearer, but his own limbs felt heavy; he had grown oddly powerless. Through a light visual haze he saw the boy’s lips part, widen, then saw the razor-sharp tips of the long incisors protrude, unmistakable at last. He tried to struggle, but even under the boy’s light weight it was impossible for him to move.

"But the – the priest told me 3; He – he promised 3; "

The boy smiled again. "My Master the Count is a fine actor," he said, "But such a liar! Yes, Mr Parker, it was good while it lasted. But we have a saying in our country that, if you’re going to have a party, someone has to provide the drinks."

The summer when it happened was the hottest I can remember. Mid-August it was, and our troop – the 55th Huntingdon – had pitched on the side of a broad river just outside a village in Devon somewhere. A sunny, leafy spot it was, and there we all were – Four-Eyes Foskett our skipper, Fat Joe Jorkins the ASL, a clutch of Patrol Leaders, and a stage-army of about thirty sprogs of all shapes and sizes – me among them – rigged out in our khaki shirts, shorts, knee-socks, garter-tabs, and all the other trimmings and trappings of Boy-Scouting in the faraway fifties.

But this story isn’t about all of that lot really, just about me, about Raff, and – well, I suppose he’ll have to come into it somewhere – the squirt Bricks.

I’ll begin with Raff. In fact, for me that summer, everything began – and ended – with Raff. I would never have admitted it at the time, but now I’ll come straight out and say that for these two weeks, I could hardly look at anyone but Raff, I could hardly think about anyone but Raff. Even in my sleeping-bag at night, I thought about Raff, probably even dreamt about him.

Raphael Stubbing, just turned 14, my Patrol Leader, about a year older than me. Oh, what a poem, what a sonnet. Raff, with his dark eyes, his raven-smooth hair, his softly curved, lightly suntanned cheeks, his perfect lips and teeth. And oh, that delirious expanse of boy-smooth, flawless, bare browned legs and thighs from brief khaki socks to even briefer khaki shorts. I didn’t have the words then – even now I can only say that wondrous, leggy Raff in his full scout gear, with the bright scarlet scarf knotted at his neck, was quite simply state-of-the-art Boy, nothing more nor less. There was nowhere to go after Raff, but nowhere. And for one youngster, at least, looking at him almost hurt. Even seeing Raff do ordinary things like tying knots, whittling wood, or jumping in the river was enough 3; and when he smiled his eighteen-carat smile – there was this kind of twist deep inside somewhere – an almost physical kind of wanting 3; I didn’t know quite what. Well, I did in a way, but I’ll come to that. For then, even to be Raff’s 'best mate', so to speak, would have been something.

Something, did I say? The truth is, I knew it was the only thing I wanted in the world, would ever want.

And did Raff give a hoot? Did he what. Acted like I didn’t exist most of the time. Oh, he was decent enough to me as a Patrol Leader, answered my questions if I asked – but that was about it. It disappointed me – to put it mildly – that he wasn’t friendlier. Indeed, it puzzled me. I wasn’t so awful as a kid, I wasn’t all that repulsive, and I’d plenty of friends. Except, of course, the one I really wanted.

The worst bit of all, though, had to do with the squirt Jeremy Bricks. I had to come to him sooner or later. Blondie Bricks they called him, he looked almost like he’d put stuff out of a bottle on his head. A mere tenderfoot, about eleven or so, his first summer camp. The pretty-pretty sort, the kind I didn’t like very much. Though in fact I’d nothing against him either, and I think I always treated him okay – like I would any new kid in my patrol.

But as for Raff. Oh, yuk, yuk, yuk. It would really have made you sick. Bricksie this. Bricksie that. Can I help you with your knots, Bricksie? Want to come swimming, Bricksie?

And the same from the squirt. Yes, Raff, okay, Raff, three bags full, Raff, lick your bum, Raff? Well 3; words to that effect anyway.

Yet even this – unbelievable though it may seem – was not the most vomit-making thing of all. Which was that Raff actually carried a lock of the kid’s hair around with him everywhere! Yes, he really did. I ask you.

Of course, he didn’t advertise it, but Jimmy Cuff, who shared Raff’s tent, had seen it in his breast pocket once, in a little plastic envelope. He reckoned Raff had cut it off when the kid was asleep, in fact he swore he’d seen Raff prowling round the tents with a pair of scissors late one night. I glimpsed it too once, sticking out of his pocket when he didn’t know, the little plastic envelope with the blond wisp in it.

But I didn’t say anything at first. Maybe it was a nasty streak in me, but I decided to save the knowledge till I could do the most harm with it. Getting a kind of revenge on Raff for ignoring me, near enough. He’d put it about that the kid was a kind of cousin and he had to look out for him, but, well, that didn’t work with me. Not especially after one day watching them in the river, Raff allegedly teaching the kid to swim, both of them in their skimpy – very skimpy – swimtrunks, while Raff supported the kid underneath as he did the doggy-paddle or whatever. And where were Raff’s hands, tell me that? It was clear water, but swift and bubbly, so I couldn’t see. Though I had my ideas.

If only 3; If only it had been me 3; I squirmed in my pants at the thought. I even wondered about pretending I couldn’t swim so Raff would help me. But something told me it would go wrong. In the end I couldn’t stand watching any more, and went to chop wood.

* *

It was perhaps because of the 'swimming lesson' that things came to a head that very afternoon. Otherwise I doubt whether I would have said what I did, or acted as I did.

The way it came about was, I’d annoyed Four-Eyes in some way and had been put on fatigues – as one was in those days – peeling spuds. The troop were going hiking to a huge lake on the other side of the range of hills, where there was marvellous swimming – a magical spot, with the rocks and water-races round about it making the most wonderful natural diving-places, flumes and water-slides – in short, the most fantastic water-playground any boy could imagine.

But I, of course, didn’t get to go, and Raff, as my Patrol Leader, had to stay and supervise me. Worse, it was a baking hot day and neither of us was allowed to swim in the river as there was no adult supervision.

So we were both, of course, in an absolutely foul temper. I sat in the shade inside the mess-tent, peeling and muttering angrily about how unfair it was – though the whole thing was, of course, entirely my fault. I hadn’t seen Raff for a bit until he appeared in the tent doorway, looking daggers at me.

"Well, have you finished yet?" he asked shortly.

Because of the heat, we both wore nothing but our Speedos. I gulped at the sight of Raff – so much of him so close to – and would perhaps have answered him differently, if it hadn’t been that I glimpsed, sticking out of even his swimtrunks, a corner of that wretched little plastic envelope with the lock of hair. Well – again, I ask you!

"Nothing like," I said unpleasantly, "What did you expect?"

Raff paused in the tent doorway, and his tone softened a little. "Look, there isn’t so much to do now, really. If you’re quick we might be able to catch them up. Maybe if you work at it hard I’ll help you in a minute. So – get a move on!"

With the memory of the scene at the river fresh in my mind, I was in no mood to be mollified.

"Stop ordering me about," I snapped.

Raff’s face changed. "I’ll order you about if I want. I’m your Patrol Leader, and don’t forget it."

"You wouldn’t shout orders at Blondie Bricks like that, would you. Not at pretty little blue-eyed Bricks, not at your pet."

Raff stared at me, his cheeks slowly turning a dull red. "What did you say?"

I was so inflamed now that I started to say things I hadn’t meant to. "And fancy carrying a lock of his nasty smelly hair around with you. I think that’s so disgusting. It makes me so sick, it makes me want to heave – urgh, urgh, uuurgh 3;" I stood, bent forward, clutched my throat, made vomiting noises.

Of course, I had gone too far. Furiously, Raff flung himself at me, punching, kicking and pummelling with all the force of his young body 3; In fact, I’ll never, ever forget the sheer ferocity with which my Patrol Leader set about me that afternoon.

It was probably the most wonderful moment of my life. Up till then, anyway. In an instant, we were rolling on the grass, chest against chest, bare thighs deliriously entangled, Raff’s smooth boy-skin moving, pressing, thudding and smacking against almost every bit of me, as we twisted, turned, kicked and wrestled 3; And Raff’s warm cheek tight on mine, his hot rapid breaths right in my ear as I tried – not very hard – to protect myself from his vigour of his onslaught

I would have wanted it to go on for ever – but in a moment I had gone h-a-r-d 3; more so than even in my life before. I though he would certainly feel it against him – or maybe in a moment I would burst right out of my swimtrunks, sticky them even – and then I would simply have died of shame.

I pulled away, then we were both on our feet, flushed, tousled, panting, glaring at one another. A moment later, without saying anything, Raff turned abruptly to go.

The little plastic envelope had fallen on the grass. I called shortly after him and pointed to it.

"Don’t want it," he shouted back. Then he paused in the tent doorway and added, fiercely and breathlessly, "And you’re stupid, stupid. Just look at the sodding thing, why don’t you."

Sodding was heavy in those days.

He went back to his tent; if there had been doors, he would have slammed them both.

The plastic envelope was still on the grass. Well, I’d throw that away, for a start.

But what did he mean, look at it?

Okay, so I did. In fact, when one looked 3; it wasn’t quite that bleached-out blond colour, more straw-ey perhaps. Ripe corn, someone had said once.

I’d thumped him of course.

I went through to my own tent. My comb had a few strands of hair on it still. I put the lock against it, then sat looking at them both for a decade or so.

At last I stood up. Just one thing to decide. I plucked at the waistband of my Speedos 3;

But it wasn’t a decision really. I had been wrong – terribly wrong. So, although I didn’t have the words for it then, I knew it would have to be a kind of rite, a penitential offering almost.

And he would get to do whatever he wanted.

I skinned off my Speedos, balled them into a corner of the tent and went next door where Raff was still waiting.

Rattenbury-Swinge sent for me precisely five seconds after I’d arrived. The usual. Welcome to the staff, fine team, great traditions. I looked out of the window, tried not to drum my fingers. R-S was a worried man. Seventeenth Century endowments don’t keep a show like this on the road with twelve per cent inflation; he’d had to take in his first consignment of pupils from the town last year. Les arrivistes; he must have hated it. I’d taken a look at the place, hedged my bets, then taken a look at the kids, and accepted. He was lucky; in the ordinary way I wouldn’t have touched it, not with the proverbial, not at that salary.

Subtly, his tone altered. My gaze flicked back from the joke oak; he had my attention again.

"Our duties, Hudson, are many, going in a number of ways beyond what would be expected of a mere teacher, an instructor. We are guides, preceptors, nursemaids even. I believe I have explained the main part of your duties to you. However 3;"

He got up, then sat down again. I could see a small muscle under his left eye tighten, quiver. Now he was nervous, jumpy.

"The issue arises principally with your form, Hudson, the boys whose time in a choir school is naturally coming to an end and who will be going to Public Schools next year. You see, Hudson, the School has certain standards. Old-fashioned perhaps, but still 3;"

The phone rang and he dealt with it. I waited, silent.

Then he went on, "In effect, Hudson, is a question of what boys of that age will or will not be expected to do every night, or nearly every night – if you follow me – and of whether this is indeed something they should be encouraged to do themselves, or whether, in contradistinction, a member of the staff should perform the office for them. I incline personally to the latter view. Therefore the admittedly somewhat repetitious duty which I would like you to undertake with respect to your form -"

The door was knocked and Matron came in. Some conversation about laundry followed; I didn’t listen. Soon she was dismissed; she left.

"Now, where was I? Anyhow, I believe I’ve made myself clear. If you think the job perhaps too menial one could – er – ask Matron perhaps. Are there any questions?"

If there were, I wouldn’t be asking them.

"Good. Just before they go to sleep is best. Twenty to thirty – er – strokes would normally do it, I should think."

Now, there I could have asked him how I knew. But I simply rose, murmured thank you, Headmaster, and left.

This is one duty I would begin right away. Tonight. I called in the Head Chorister, Chopleigh CJ, age thirteen, incidentally the kind of blond pubescent whose looks grab you in the guts and turn your knees to jelly-water. He was also head of the dorm. Ten minutes, give or take, we chatted of this and that. Then I stopped, cleared my throat, surprising myself. I was as nervous as King Rat had been.

"Now, just about the – the last thing at night. You know, what I believe my predecessor’s last evening – er, duty was."

Chopleigh CJ shook his head. "Oh, I couldn’t say, sir. We’ve all just come up from the form below, you know."

God. Now I’d have to explain. It wasn’t easy, not with these stunning blue eyes on me, wide and puzzled until he understood. Then, to my relief, the eyes lit, and a gorgeous smile almost sent me sideways.

"Oh, now I see, sir! For a moment I thought you were talking about extra singing lessons! Gosh, sir, it’s going to be wicked being in the top year, what with extra football, and now this! What time shall I get them ready."

"Just after they get undressed for bed, about nine. How many of you are there?"

"Twenty." He caught my expression, grinned. "There are good parallel bars in the gym, sir! Fine exercise for the wrists!"

"Or I’ll pay you a game of squash!" I quipped back. "Even better!"

"Several!" said the kid.

* *

Bedtime came just a few centuries later. Nine o’clock I went into the dorm, heart thudding like the 6.15 from Paddington. Chopleigh had been efficient; all were ready, on their beds, all with pyjama bottoms off. I began at the end. No difficulty here, a hard round pencil, a quick dozen or so and aaah! he tightens and jolts, a little dampness, then thank you, sir. Goodnight. Problem one, a few others not quite so ready, but a little activity of the deft Hudson fingers both fore and aft and 3; end of that difficulty. Each kid took it differently, no two the same. Some utterly silent, eyes screwed shut, the only sign your task was over a little sudden tightening all over, mouth opens silently, a little oooh! perhaps. Others more vocal, ah-ah-ahing all the way through, then yelling out at the end. One or two simply quivering a little, but others bouncing up and down, bare behinds thumping like steam-hammers on the bed, then finally just about taking off, bodies jack-knifing, knees snapping upward at some risk to yours truly, if said wasn’t careful. Problem two, a little stickiness here and there, but Chopleigh partly solved that problem by making them all take off their pj’s completely, setting the example himself – so that a dormitory of young nudes awaited me every night.

In recognition of his exalted status, incidentally, Chopleigh was 'dealt with' seated on my knee. If 'seated' is the right word – he being one of the most active, also the noisiest. Perhaps because he always insisted on two hands, if you please.

"Better than extra singing lessons?" I asked.

He grinned. "Well, you do make me sing, sir! Hadn’t you noticed?"

* *

Rattenbury-Swinge sent for me again at the end of the second week. His tone warm to begin with. Congratulations on settling in so well, duties all performed to his satisfaction, etc, etc. He coughed again, changed key. Except 3;

"Headmaster?"

"Except for that little duty I referred to last of all. There I’m not so happy, Hudson."

Christ – where were you, in the wardrobe?

"I really think," I said, "that I have done my best to -"

He held up his hand. "There I’m afraid I cannot agree. I do look around very carefully at morning chapel and, as I said, we have our standards, Hudson."

Now he had lost me.

"On reflection, I have decided that it is probably not appropriate to ask you to brush the boys’ hair at night, and I have therefore asked Matron to perform this duty instead. Yes, Hudson?"

I hadn’t spoken.

Just as well.

"One other thing. Chopleigh CJ is waiting to see you. About extra singing lessons, he said. I’m glad he’s taking an interest. That will be all, Hudson."

"Thank you, Headmaster."

It must be all of half a century now since steam ran from St Pancras to Bedford – though I was never quite certain about details like that, and I’m no different now. What I do know was that yesterday was the exact anniversary of the day when the last Pacific-whatever pulled the 3.15 up the main line to Hoddeston, and you and I went to see it. You were altogether train-mad, as were most thirteen-year-olds in those days, so when you assured me that you simply, absolutely had to observe this puffing marvel I didn’t question you, I just got my bike out – though I was a pretty wobbly cyclist even then.

Before I go on, incidentally, a slight correction is necessary in the interests of strict accuracy. I said that we went to watch the train; in fact, you went to watch the train. I went, as on all these occasions, to watch you. To see, observe, note and mentally record every tiniest aspect of the visual miracle that was you, Richard, to scrutinise, and to remember. I don’t imagine you guessed all that even for a moment, not during those long afternoons on Platform 2 at King’s Cross, not during all those innumerable expeditions to goods yards, local branch lines, engine sheds, disused and snoozing country stations, or wherever else your enthusiasms took you. But now, all these years later, it has to be time for a little honesty and, sitting yesterday in the field by the now deeply overgrown cutting, I decided that I had to put on paper for you, and for you alone, my memory of that extraordinary August day when the old-style semaphore dropped with a clatter and the 3.15 came puffing and blowing out of the tunnel and then up the long incline into rural Hertfordshire, leaving behind two spectators for whom trains, railways, and a number of other things would – well, never have quite the same associations again.

I always wondered how much you truly believed my phoney eagerness as you rattled on about gauges, cylinders, bogies and the like – but my excitement, the absolute, shimmering joy that I must have radiated when we were together was real enough, and probably made me an immensely cheerful companion. Perhaps that was why you tolerated me on all those trips though, come to think of it, we must have looked a fairly ill-assorted pair. I mean, we weren’t exactly contemporaries, were we? And to a young boy an age difference can loom pretty large where friendships are concerned. But there you invariably were on my front doorstep, after school or on Saturday mornings, jumping from one foot to another in your eagerness to be off, pulling at me with one hand, your train-spotter’s notebook in the other. And then we would be away on foot or on bicycle, you in a great hurry as always, chattering ceaselessly, looking back over your shoulder and laughing at me, telling me to get a move on, while I panted and struggled in your wake, doing my best to keep up.

That summer holiday was the first from your boarding-school; you had started after Easter and I had, of course, been utterly shattered. But with both your parents in Africa, there had been nothing else for it. And there were, as you said, always the holidays; it was the thought of the long summer months that had kept me going. I used to do little sums; soon I would have six whole weeks with you, over a thousand hours, sixty thousand minutes 3;

And this was our first day out, o dies mirabilis, the hottest day of the summer so far. We left our bikes in the lane (no-one seemed to steal bikes then) and walked over the brow of the hill, down through the long grass of the meadow to where we could see a glint of sunlight on the curve of the line; the signal was still up. In fact, we had half an hour before the train came; you were always too early, Richard. I lay on my back in the sun but you, for heaven’s sake, took out your notebook right away and started drawing lines and ticking squares. I remember asking wearily, "Don’t you ever give up?"

"No," you answered simply.

But I was also indulging in my latest hobby; I had brought my Box Brownie. What was more, I wasn’t even going to waste one shot on your precious Pacific. I still felt that odd quiver of delight that had spiked through me when you appeared at the door in those brief linen shorts you hadn’t worn since last summer, and had in fact outgrown a little. In fact is, it was at that point I has gone back for my camera. And now I still felt little goose-pimples all over, looking at you seated on the grass hugging your knees, the sun on your cool bare thighs, as you frowned at your notebook, then went on ticking and scribbling. Then, all at once, you closed the book and put it down, then rolled over and cupped your chin in your hands.

"Well, there it is, we’ll just have to wait. What a bore, though."

I squirmed a little closer. I would have loved to put my arm round your neck, or just slide my hand over yours, but just didn’t dare. I simply traced little lines on the back of your hand with my fingers, and you didn’t seem to mind, or at least didn’t move it away. I blew gently into the delicate hair just behind your ear. I had completed my sum; over three million seconds.."

You picked your time, Richard. You said then, "By the way, Joe, I’m leaving first thing tomorrow."

I stopped everything I was doing and stared; I simply didn’t follow. "What?"

"I got this invitation to stay with a chap from school and I’ve been trying to decide whether to go or not; I think I will. I’ll phone him tonight, tell him I’ll catch the 8.15 from Paddington. That’s a pretty decent train, Great Western of course. Coronation class, probably, maybe one I haven’t got. He said his dad would pick me up from the station."

"Who – whose dad?" I asked foolishly.

"Oh, the chap’s called Smithers. A bit of a weed in some ways. He keeps gerbils and collects bird’s eggs and sings also in the choir; he’s pretty putrid, really."

"Then why – why 3;?"

"I don’t know," you said carelessly, "But I’ve decided I’ll go. Just like that."

It was impossible for me to say anything. I turned and shoved my face deep into the long grass. I gulped down the huge waves of desolation that rose and broke deep inside me, dug my nails into my palms, struggled not to make a sound – well, not one that you would hear, anyway. It wasn’t just the fact of your going away, Richard, but that I clearly counted for absolutely nothing to you, that it was after all very, very different from what I’d thought 3;

Things seemed to stay like that for a while, then I was aware that you were tugging at a wisp of hair at the back of my neck. "I say, what’s the matter, Joe?"

At least, you sounded a little disconcerted now. I gulped, sat up, started to say, "I- I’d been looking forward so much to – to – ", then had to stop again.

I heard you laugh, and looked up. You were sitting back again, rocking gently on your heels, then you said teasingly, "I know what’s the matter with you. It’s what they told us about when I started at my new school."

"You became a little earnest, joined your finger-tips and looked at me over the top, like a doctor. "You’ve got a pash, that’s what. Go on, admit it."

Caught off guard, I almost nodded my head, then quickly shook it. "Of course not."

"Oh, I don’t mind, really. I’ve had pashes on me before – often," you said shamelessly. "At school, you know."

Oddly, the possibility of competition hadn’t occurred to me until then – though I certainly didn’t doubt what you said, given what you looked like. At the same time, I felt a fresh stab of misery at the thought. But I simply said grumpily, "Not bad for one term, I suppose."

"Oh, not very often. But you sometimes get 3; notes and so on."

"Is Smithers a pash?" I asked.

"Course not," you said scornfully. "You’d get some dreaded disease from Smithers. I expect you’d die horribly."

"Then why go to his place?"

You shrugged. "Dunno – I’m just going."

"Notes and what else?" I asked after a few moments, reluctantly curious. "I mean, what happens afterwards?"

"Nothing," you said with emphasis. You pulled up a dandelion clock and started blowing tiny seeds off it. I never let anyone do anything to me," you said with great severity. "Nor will I!"

So was I expected to nominate you for some kind of award? But I didn’t feel too much like being ironic, so I kept quiet.

You had pulled up another clock and were pulling the seeds out by hand, one by one. "That is," you said, giving microscopic attention to the task, "with one possible exception." You pulled out the last seed. "And that’s only because I won’t be seeing him again after tomorrow – well, not for a while at least."

Richard, now that I’m a lot older and perhaps a little wiser, people sometimes come to me for advice about this and that. And there was this man who had squandered just about all his money on a trip to Morocco where (they say) the boys are more beautiful and more willing than just about anywhere else. But when the moment came – the moment actually to do what he’s dreamed about and fantasised about for nearly all of his life – he simply was so overwhelmed that he simply couldn’t – well, perform. And that was what I felt like then – something like the kid unexpectedly given the freedom of the candy store – and you misunderstood and got up.

"Come on, let’s get our bikes," he said crossly. "I don’t want to wait for this mouldy train any longer."

It was the first time I had heard you speak disparagingly of steam in any shape or form. I grabbed hold of one of your plimsolls, the only part of you within reach, untied it and took it off, then your sock. Then, as you had sat down again, I started on the other foot and – well, so on. And – I laugh to remember it now – I remember how a moment or two later you said 'wait', and ran completely naked-bare across the grass for a few yards and jumped up on a little hillock to look down at the signal, shading your eyes against the afternoon sun. Christ, even then you were thinking about your bloody trains. Yet for a while I sat where I was, entranced, mesmerised and just about everything else. Richard, to think that people travel halfway round to world to look at those impossibly mesomorphic tag-wrestlers on the Pope’s ceiling, when this – this on a sunlit English hill was not only incomparable for grace and proportion, but actually quite free – with no extra charge, either, for being three-dimensional and live. Though, come to think of it, making it free was the only sensible thing for them to do; on the same scale of charges, nobody would have that much money.

* *

Then I resolved that for once, for a few minutes at least, I was going to make you forget all about the Midland Railway, the Great Western Railway, and – if I could manage it – the entire national network. I pounced, and we rolled down the slope in a delirious, shrieking tangle of bare and clothed limbs. Though, in a moment or two, it was really you who had taken over. Maybe I wasn’t able to manage to do exactly what you said – but near enough, and, with you assisting me with the most vigorous and delightful squirmings, quite suddenly I was thinking – of all things – of the train, thumping and thumping closer until all at once the whole world went bang and I was left clinging to you half-lifeless and sobbing – but then you had flipped over in an instant and put both hands behind my head, pulling it down. "Yes, Joe, yes," and I came right back to life and was again the engine-driver until suddenly you stopped breathing, gasped, then rocketed up off the grass and yelled at the top of your voice before dropping with a thud again and making quite a lot more noise, and then I remember you holding my head tightly just where it was, you still wildly restless from top to toe, rolling and wriggling, running your hands up and down through the hair on the back of my head and then all round it, saying to me over and over, quietly and breathlessly, things I could never have believed or even hoped – not till then, not till that afternoon.

I can’t quite remember what happened in the next few minutes – or perhaps it was much longer. I was perfectly content to where I was indefinitely. But the sun was much lower now and it was cooler.

"Shouldn’t you be getting your clothes on now," I asked reluctantly. "We really ought to be going."

"Suppose so," you said, but didn’t get up. Then you asked, "Where shall we go tomorrow?"

"Well, you’ll be birds-egging with Smithers about now, won’t you?" I said, with a trace of the former acrimony. "You’ll be all right."

You rolled over on your back and looked reflectively at the sky.

"Actually, I’m not going to stay with Smithers. Come to that, he didn’t invite me. I made it up."

I rose to my knees.

"You made it up? You’re not going?"

"I made it up and I’m not going."

Wonderful, blissful news. But –

"But – but, Richard, why did you..?"

You said, "Actually, I’m a bit sorry about that now, I didn’t think you’d be so upset."

"But why do it at all?"

You considered a small passing cloud above use and said very hesitantly, "Well, if you hadn’t though I was leaving tomorrow 3; I mean – well, it worked, didn’t it?"

I was thrilled and outraged – and at least you had the decency to blush; you put your arms over your face, but I could see even your ears turning bright pink.

"So it was all rot then?" I asked, perhaps wanting to be completely reassured.

You nodded; you regained some of your usual nonchalance, put a long blade of grass in your mouth and cradled your head in your hands, watching the cloud again. "Come to that, there’s no Smithers either. A pity in a way. I was beginning to believe in him myself, with his gerbils and birds-egging. Actually, I’d grown quite fond of him really."

It was too much. I pushed you on to your back, straddled you, and pummelled you with both fists till you begged for mercy. Then I slid down, buried my face in your chest and said back to all the things you’d said to me earlier. And more.

And we didn’t even miss the train, but saw it coming back. It had to, come to think of it; the British Rail network didn’t exist in those days. And then we got our bikes and went home. So that was it, Richard, that was how you and I remained 'best friends', in spite of the difference in our ages. But I, for one, didn’t think much about that at the time. One doesn’t think about anything very much, at eleven. And I suppose I was a pretty average kid, really.

"Fetch the Book, Miss Trewhinney," said Miss Evangeline Thundelford, BA, "Fetch the Book."

The School Secretary fetched the book and it was opened.

"The fact may be quite veraciously enunciated by me, Miss Trewhinney, that at no time within my recollection has a matter of such gravity been drawn to my attention. I do not allude only to the enormity of such an item being brought into a Geography lesson, even – hard though I find it to credit the evidence of my own ears – even played with during the lesson. Nor do I speak merely of my good colleague Miss Seabiscuit who, having made this dreadful discovery, is at this very moment prostrate in the Sanatorium receiving twice-hourly restoratives. No, all of this pales into relative insignificance beside the fact of such an – object being brought into St Agatha’s Academy for Young Ladies at all, something quite unknown and indeed utterly prohibited during my thirty-two years as headmistress here. Yet you do not, I understand, deny it?"

The culprit, failing perhaps to shrivel adequately, peered at her from between long parted locks, then looked at the carpet again.

"Not that any words of yours, miserable child, could mitigate such a offence. It is already here, written in the Book, that Miss Seabiscuit observed you actually to hold in your hand 3; No, delicacy forbids. I am indebted to you, Miss Trewhinney, for your meticulous record of this unhappy affair."

"Thank you, Miss Thundelford."

The culprit spoke. "You see, Miss, I couldn’t help bringing it in, being as I’m a –"

Miss Trewhinney had turned pale. Miss Thundelford shuddered, rapped the desk sharply. "Silence! Even to hear the very word pronounced within these walls 3; Miss Trewhinney, for one, has had a very delicate upbringing. The consequences might be 3;"

"Thank you, Headmistress," murmured the secretary.

"But, Miss – "

"I said silence! Stand forth, wretched child, and let me look at you. Stand in the light. Prentice, is it not?"

"Yes, Miss."

"Miss Thundelford. Ah, now I can see better. Well, well, and how impressions deceive, do they not? Who would guess that behind such a seemingly innocent face, such an outwardly unsullied complexion, lurks such an infamous secret? Before one stands to all appearances a perfectly presentable twelve-year-old second-former. Indeed, an unknowing bystander might observe that a prettier child had rarely been seen – though I hasten to say that I never flatter, but merely add the observation because of the even more heinous light it throws upon the offence in which you have been discovered. All so deceptively in order, hair neatly combed – though I would prefer it a little more behind the ears – the uniform totally correct with the hem precisely at mid-thigh as I always wish it; also a perfect pair of legs for hockey – not too muscular, Miss Trewhinney, which is so unbecoming – and white, perfectly laundered ankle-socks doubtless obtained from Matron this very morning according to normal regulations. And yet –" Miss Thundelford rose. "You are not fit to wear a St Agatha’s uniform. Off with it!?"

"Yes, Miss."

"Miss Trewhinney, you have my permission to retire, if you wish."

"Only if you wish it, Headmistress. Otherwise I am prepared to do my duty by remaining."

"I did not for a moment doubt it, Miss Trewinney. Come along, Prentice – socks and shoes as well. Everything on that chair."

Halfway through, Prentice hesitated. "Everything, Miss?"

"I said so, didn’t I? Right down to your skin, child. And then, Miss Trewhinney, at last we wil be able to see beyond doubt what we have unwittingly harboured in our school, and the illicit object that has been so blatantly brought within our gates. Thank you 3; Very well, child, it appears that some moments ago you were attempting to offer some kind of explanation – given that such an improbable thing could exist – for this most extraordinary breach of school regulations. Well, I am waiting. And hands on your head, please."

Prentice obeyed, blushed, then began hesitantly. "It was at the hockey match. St Agatha’s against St Bees. I’m at St Bees, you see, and my sister’s here. We’re twins, you see, and I’m quite like her, even though she’s a girl. Well, we changed clothes for a jape, and then there was this bet that we could fool the teachers. We mightn’t have really gone through with it, but then the bus came before we could change back and – well, it got harder and harder to explain, and then –"

The headmistress held up a hand.

"Stop – enough. In scarcely more than a single sentence we have heard of unspeakable levity, of deliberate deception, of flagrant wagering, and of blatant disrespect toward those placed in positions of authority. And, as if that were not enough, insufferable slang has just been uttered in the presence of myself and Miss Trewhinney. Have you ever in your life encountered such a thing, Miss Trewhinney?"

"I do not believe so, Miss Thundelford," said the Second Mistress, peering. "But perhaps if I were to go a little closer 3;"

"I meant, have you ever come across such an outrage?" snapped the Headmistress.

"I’m sorry, Miss," said Prentis. "But it seemed a pretty good lark at the time, Miss."

"I said, enough," said Miss Thundelford crossly. Then she asked, "And what, might one enquire, do you think of it now?"

"Not so hot, frankly."

"Well!" gasped Miss Trewhinney. She pointed.

"Really!" exclaimed Miss Thundelford. "That you should have the sheer effrontery to add to the original offence 3; this!"

"I’m sorry," said Prentice. "I can’t help it. I mean, with being bare, and with you both looking 3;"

"Miss Trewhinney," said the headmistress, "Please go and see if you can find some suitable clothes. I believe the gardener has a bo- Oh, I do apologise."

Miss Trewhinney has staggered slightly and was clutching the ornamental mantelpiece. In a moment she whispered, "It’s quite all right, Miss Thundelford. I will do what I can." She went out.

The headmistress stood, pulled her chair out from behind the desk, then sat down again. "Very well then, Prentice. Come here."

"I suppose I had it coming," said Prentice gloomily. "Well, I’ve been spanked before; best get it over with."

"You misunderstand. What I mean is, you can’t leave my office like that, can you?"

"Well, I’ll wait till the clothes come; I expect they won’t be long."

"No – like that," said the headmistress, pointing.

"Oh, I see. No, I suppose not."

"So you know, of course, that there’s only one thing to be done, don’t you?"

"Oh, yes," said Prentice brightly. He came over and sat on one of Mrs Thundelford’s knees, the headmistress holding him in place with one hand. After a moment she said, "There, you see, I’ll be quite gentle."

"I don’t mind much if you aren’t actually," said Prentice. He asked, "But – but how do you 3; ?"

"How do I know?"

Miss Thundelford reflected, then said very quietly, "Years and years ago, when I was just about your age, I had a very dear young friend 3; Then, when we were both fourteen, we went to different boarding-schools, and – well, the war came and so on. Quite a common, tedious story, really. But I ought not to talk while engaged in a perhaps somewhat taxing activity. Medical authorities do, I believe, warn against over-exertion at one’s age."

So instead, both headmistressly hands fell to diligent work, and for a time nothing was audible but the slow click-clock of the great pendulum above here, the wall plaque beside it engraved in memory of twelve generations of Old Girls – those who had Served, and those who had Fallen.

Prentice’s bare feet tapped the carpet, drummed the carpet. Then his toes clenched hard as a shock-wave rose like lightning, whipping him forwards, backwards; he gasped, bounded, screamed 3;

"Now you can go," said Miss Thundelford five minutes later, as the secretary re-entered.

"Everything has been arranged, Headmistress," said the latter. The clothes are on their way, and a car will arrive from St Bees shortly, bringing the other miscreant."

"On your way, then, child," said the headmistress, lightly slapping the culprit’s rump. "Run along, run along."

Miss Trewhinney lingered in the doorway and cast a glance backwards. "Ah, poor, dear Evangeline," she mused, "See how, cognisant of the once bright and untarnished name of St Agatha’s, now for ever sullied, and not consoled even by the reflection that such an 3; item will never again be brought within our portals, she wipes away a silent tear. Poor, poor Evangeline."

It was as high as a cliff, as wide as a palace, and as old as the century. In front was a walled terrace, a great pillared entrance with stone steps and, on either side of the entrance, a double row of tall windows – twenty-eight of them. I should know. Nearly every morning when I was a boy I’d counted them lazily, half asleep, as I lay in bed and looked across the valley at the Big House opposite.

In those days there would be tremendous comings and goings even in the early morning – all fascinating to a curious youngster – servant-girls pulling back shutters, brushing the steps, shaking dusters out of upstairs windows – then the arrival of a succession of tradesmen’s vans, and sometimes of mysterious closed carriages that drove swiftly into the rear courtyard with a clatter of hooves and a chime of harness, and which I rarely saw coming out again.

The house stood due west of us, so that nearly every morning the sun struck all the windows and sometimes made me think of the old tale I had been told when I was little – the tale of the House with the Golden Windows. About how a boy had been intrigued every morning by the wondrously gold windows of the house on the opposite hill and how that at length he had struggled all day across a deep valley to reach his miraculous house only to find, to his bitter disappointment, that its windows were of glass like any others. But then how, happening to look back, he had seen the windows of his own house caught in the setting sun and flooded with the brightest gold he had ever seen. There was, I recall, some kind of moral attached to the tale – other than that the boy in question was presumably half-witted – but I can’t remember what it was.

That had all, of course, been some years before the summer in question. By the time I went off to college in the big city the house had been empty for three or four years, no-one knew why. All the rooms were deserted, some shuttered, and though the windows still naturally caught the sun each morning the gold had faded now, as the panes were grimy, several were broken, and all were shrouded with ivy and creeper.

And, of course, it was haunted. Well, have you ever heard of an old and empty country house that wasn’t? The village boys used to scare each other witless with tales of mysterious light and figures, wailing nuns, headless monks, unearthly shriekings and knockings. And there were dares to go in after midnight, to spend the night there – still, you know the kind of thing.

I don’t know what took me across to the old house that morning. It had been a gloriously hot August, and it was still high summer. But that day there was a light wind, with a few wisps of cloud chasing across the sky. And it was when I was standing on the great terrace, and the sun again went in, that I glanced upwards towards the front of the house – then stood utterly motionless. I have to admit – and my own reaction took me aback – that I knew a moment of sheer, primitive terror – that my guts spasmed and froze, slivers of ice arrowed all through me, and the hairs stood up and prickled all down the back of my neck. Yet what I saw was not of itself especially frightening – it was not dark or hooded, its head was firmly attached to its shoulders, and it did not rend the air with shrieks, wails or any vocal importunities whatever. The figure was quite simply that of a child – a boy of perhaps twelve or so, dressed in a long white gown like a nightshirt and holding a tall candle or taper from which a flame flowed steadily upwards, though the room behind remained dark. The face was one of unearthly loveliness, the complexion fair, almost translucent, the eyes blue as the Provençal sky. Blond hair floated round the cheeks, light and delicate as thistledown, ends flickering in some mysterious breeze. The figure didn’t look at me, didn’t seem aware of me – but what terrified me most of all, somehow, was that the eyes were fixed steadily on my house on the opposite side of the valley – even, I fancied, on my window. Looking, but somehow not seeing.

The sun came out for an instant, flashed on the window-pane, and when it was again obscured, the window was empty, the room behind it pitch-black. I really can’t describe my thoughts as I stumbled down into the valley towards my own house, not daring to look back – or the long sleepless night I passed subsequently, making horrendous presences out of every shape and shadow in the room. Yet it was mainly that face which – and this is the only word – which haunted me, all that night and during the few days following. And, as the days passed, that "haunting" was far from unpleasant. I began to remember vividly how, during the past college term, I had watched the schoolboys going to their classes on the rue de Rivoli with their neat uniforms and combed hair – very comme il faut, of course – and how my eyes had so often strayed in the direction of some blond pixie or hazel-eyed elf. And how I had even then been, in a sense, captivated. But I’d never seen one who looked like that - ever.

I even – for I fancied myself as something of an artist – took out a pad and pencil and tried to capture those luminous eyes, those curved cheeks and wind-blown locks, but it was hopeless. After a few days I realised there was only one thing for it – though of course I had known that all along. So, precisely a week after my first visit, and at the same time, I was again on the stone terrace, looking up at the old window, my heart bumping again, my skin prickling in anticipation.

Alas, the room remained empty and dark – as did all the rooms, though I waited and walked about for an hour or so. Then, just at the angle of the building, I stopped short. In a stone wall alongside the frontage a small wooden door, leading into the rear garden, stood slightly ajar. I hadn’t noticed it before. Well, there was seemingly nothing more to be seen from where I was, so I very gently pushed the gate open and went in. The overgrowth and decay at the front of the house were nothing to that at the back. I had to battle my way through a heavy curtain of thorns and briars even to advance a short distance and, indeed, I almost gave up. But then the space opened out a little, and I found myself on the edge of a kind of shrubbery, set around a wide shaggy lawn with a ruined fountain at the centre; water still dripped on to the greening stonework. Through a gap in the bushes, light was reflected from a half-hidden lake, almost covered with weeds and water-lilies.

I stood uncertainly for a moment. The bushes behind me rustled; I turned, and, to my embarrassment, actually shouted out with shock. The Face was only a short distance away, those eyes this time fixed on me, those eyes of the impossible, luminous blue. The head disappeared, the bushes shook and parted and – I had company again. But what a difference! This time there was no white gown, no taper. The child wore nothing but a pair of brief, torn shorts, the blond hair was tousled and speckled with leaves, and the face and the body were grubby and mud-streaked. But – oh, there was still no mistake, there couldn’t be, and even my most delectable fantasies of the past few nights hadn’t quite matched this, or come anywhere near it.

Just what does one say in such circumstances?

"What’s your name?" I asked after a moment.

The boy smiled, then came over and sat near me on the grass, hugging his knees.

"Raoul." The voice was faint, almost a whisper, and seemed to come from a long way off. But I was encouraged, and sat on the grass beside him, though not too close. But I couldn’t take my eyes off the boy. And – I don’t know whether it was a sense of overwhelming sadness that seemed to come from him or simply something in myself, but a tremendous sense of yearning seemed to possess me. I just ached to hold him, to comfort him, to stroke all of that smooth, flawless skin, every single inch of it – though I somehow knew, too, that I couldn’t. Indeed, could anyone?

Then I remembered why I had come – partly.

"Can I draw you?

He nodded slightly, not looking surprised, almost as if he had expected the question – though that was ridiculous, really.

But I hadn’t got my pad or pencil.

"Tomorrow?" I asked. But I couldn’t see whether he nodded again, because the sun came right out, caught my eyes. I blinked, and he was gone. Where? I seemed to hear a rustle in the shrubbery, see a flicker of pale flesh – but I may have imagined it. Still, I was on my feet in an instant, stumbling towards the sound. But when I stooped again there was total silence, and when I followed to where I thought I had seen the figure vanish, there was only the high stone wall – ancient, ivy-covered, solid from end to end. I went home again, but much more cheerfully than I had come, and as I approached my own house, all its windows shone like ingots in the late afternoon sunshine.

* *

Next morning the sky was cloudless. At midday my father tapped the hall barometer and said that it was the hottest day of the year so far. The sun blazed down on me as I struggled across the valley, and I longed to reach the cool garden behind the old house and splash my face in the fountain or the lake. At the front of the house I looked at the windows again, just to check – but, as I’d expected, nothing. The small garden door stood ajar as previously and – less hesitantly today, even impatiently – I pushed my way through to the space of grass in the shrubbery. But then I stopped, listening. There was a new sound. It came from the direction of the lake and as, shading my eyes, I looked to where the sun struck the surface, I saw that the water was strangely disturbed, then that above it hovered 3; a thing formed almost of nothing but water and light, floating, rising tall above the surface, then dropping and vanishing – rising aloft yet again in a spray of broken vapour and sunshine, and once more gone, the air filled with its splash and dazzle. Then, though half-blinded, I saw the iridescence gradually take shape from its centre, at first translucent as a sunbeam, insubstantial as a dragonfly – then forming into slim, threshing arms, naked supple limbs, a slim lithe body, a pale nude form leaping ecstatically in the cool water – in, out, over and again. At last, plunging and surfacing just one more time, Raoul – for of course it was he – swam to the bank, climbed out and came running towards me. This time I fancied that the smile was more confident, and this time he came much closer to me before stopping, looking up into my face. Again I wondered about the protocol of such encounters. Did one shake hands? What I would really have liked to do was 3;

Well, why not? I put my hands on the boy’s shoulders, bent, and quickly and chastely kissed him on both cheeks. The shoulders and cheeks were alike ice-cold – but then, so probably was the water. As before he sat on the grass and hugged his knees.

"What’s your name?" he asked, as if continuing the conversation of the previous day.

I told him and he said nothing, then rolled over and lay full length on his stomach. I sat beside him. The little beads of water on his skin had almost evaporated, but I saw him shiver slightly; the air in the shaded garden was cool now on the naked youngster.

But could he feel cold?

He shivered again. Well, why not, I thought again. I started with his shoulders, sliding my palms over the smooth wet skin.

"Yes 3;?"

"Yes, please." Just the almost inaudible whisper again.

So I worked downwards from his shoulders, working vigorously with my open palms, then bit by bit going right the way down to provide an all-over réchauffement that – if he was capable of remembering – he would never forget. Nor would I.

I finally arrived at his feet. The he rolled over on his back, and I repeated the process, with even more diligence, if such a thing were possible, not leaving out a single millimetre of him. Though – did a spook squirm – giggle? Yes, I know they are meant to sigh, moan, shriek – but like that? And, when I had finished, he unexpectedly sat up and kissed me. Yet his lips were still icy-cold. And then the sun flashed in my eyes again, he was gone.

Well 3; tomorrow, I thought.

* *

But then events took an unexpected turn. I was not the only person to have seen the apparition in the window. In fact, rumours about the old house had spread all through the village, and not just among the children this time. And, to make a long story short – the curé agreed to enter the house and carry out a service of exorcism. Of course I attended, and on the appointed day there I was, at the front of the minstrels’ gallery to the rear of the great hall, together with a small crowd of the idle and curious. The curé entered in stole and biretta, attended by a cloud of altar-boys, and I remembered the exorcism in The Jackdaw of Rheims and the "nice little boys". Here too, some of the little boys were very nice indeed, as far as I could see. And the curé did indeed have a candle, a bell and a book. From behind, I watched him move toward the great stained-glass window at the head of the hall, scattering holy water, preceded by the altar-boys, two with censers, the leading boy carrying the tallest candle, a tumble of fair locks falling to his slim shoulders.

Then at the top of the hall, as the priest turned, the leading boy turned too, and looked straight at me – looked with eyes blue as the Provençal sky, and I stood as motionless as I had on that first day on the terrace. The priest was continuing his incantation.

3; that thou, o restless spirit, do return unto that place whence thou camest 3;

The leading boy remained still, his locks blowing in the faint wind from a broken window, then he slowly raised his candlestick and the priest struck the floor with his staff.

3; and, in the name of Holy Church, I command that thou for evermore depart this place 3;

From just behind the priest, the boy held my gaze again 3;

3; and, only just perceptibly, shook his head.

It was after games practice on Thursday that the terribly amazing thing happened. Toby Trotter was in the shower when Snooks, the cricket captain, came past. Snooks paused, then said, "Hi, kid," before going on.

There had been no doubt whatever in Toby’s mind; the great Snooks, he who had scored ninety against Radleigh in under an hour and bowled out seven of their men in succession, had spoken to him. There were witnesses. Hi, kid, was what he’d said. Quite distinctly.

And Toby not just a mere second-former, but a day-bug too.

Hi, kid.

Nevertheless, the heavens didn’t fall.

Well, not that Thursday.

Next Thursday Toby lingered in the shower. He wanted to make sure. Perhaps after all he’d misheard. Or perhaps Snooks had just been clearing his throat.

He waited till most of the other boys had gone, till he’d begun to shiver.

Dreadful thought, what if Snooks didn’t come at all today, what if he was playing in an away match, what if he’d been run over by a bus, what if he’d been snatched up by aliens, what if 3;

Snooks came through from the prefects’ changing-room, swinging his cricket-bag. Tall, sun-tanned, gladiator-handsome, chunky Snooks, who looked as if he could pick Toby up with one hand. Perhaps he would. Wow.

Toby pretended to fiddle with the taps, his heart bopping like a hula-drum. Would Snooks even notice him today?

"Hey, you bug," Snooks said. "I can’t find my pads. Go and look for them, and sharpish."

"Y-yes, Snooks." In a moment Toby was out of the shower, rubbing himself with his towel.

When he got back to the juniors’ changing-room all his friends had gone. Snooks took the pads, looked at Toby and wrinkled his nose. "They’ll have closed the gates now, rules are I have to take you out."

"S’pose."

"Well, your face is still muddy. I’m not going to be seen outside with a filthy little bug. Get back in that shower, and quick."

Toby obeyed, and Snooks spun the taps. The water had come on warmer now, which felt good.

"Got any soap?" asked Snooks.

"No."

Snooks rolled his eyes up. "God, we do get them." He went to his bag, brought out a bar of soap, and started rubbing it between his hands under the spray of water. "Come here, grotty bug."

Even from the cricket captain, you can only take so much. Toby went over to where Snooks was holding the soap. "I’m not a grotty bug," he said. "I’m Toby."

"So you’re a grotty Toby, then. Well, I’ll sort that."

He started to work diligently, his meaty hands busy round Toby’s neck and shoulders, soaping briskly and thoroughly. Then over his back, his chest, his stomach. Toby’s whole body, his very soul, thrilled 3; The very hands that had held the school bat, that had hit six after six, that had bowled one great man after another 3;

"Keep still," snapped Snooks.

"Sorry."

Snooks stooped, soaped his hands again, then began to work on Toby’s legs, his large palms almost encircling them.

"I mean," he said, "knees as dirty as these should carry some kind of a health warning – so that no-one comes upon them unexpectedly."

"The field was muddy."

"Well, my knees aren’t muddy," said Snooks.

"You don’t have to play in shorts."

"So you answer back, then?"

"It’s not unknown."

Snooks’ broad palms worked assiduously on Toby’s thighs – the right, the left – getting higher and higher 3;

Tony quivered inwardly. Would he?"

And if so, what would happen? Why, even having Snooks look at him bare was beginning to make him hard. And now – at the thought that Snooks might actually 3; touch him, that incredible mega-volt tingle was mounting d-e-e-p within him.

"Stop wriggling," said Snooks sharply.

W-w-would he?

"WaaaaAAARGH!"

He would.

Snooks had pushed Toby’s feet apart on the tiles, then one soapy hand was on Toby’s bottom-cheeks, palm rubbing all over, then deep between, up and down 3; and the other hand, in front, began vigorously soaping it, the supple fingers plying to and fro, to and fro.

Toby, on tiptoes now, squawked, wriggled, bounded.

"Shut up, grub."

It was really hard now, almost right against his tummy, and as Snooks worked the tingle was growing stronger, spreading all through him 3; into his guts, his bottom, his legs, his toes 3; beginning to make him almost dizzy.

Toby had begun to shimmy on the tiles; it was impossible to keep still. Or quiet.

Suddenly he gasped, "I – I’m going to sticky your hand."

"You better not," said Snooks, continuing even more rapidly and energetically, his grip tighter, the finger behind probing still deeper.

Then forked lightning struck. Toby’s hips pistoned to and fro, he screamed, his bottom-cheeks clenched, his stomach-muscles rippled, and his knees gave; he landed on his rear on the tiles and squirmed there for a moment or two before picking himself up again.

"S-sorry," he said weakly after a moment.

Snooks examined his palm, dried it, then smacked Toby’s bottom.

"Ow!"

"That’s for your bloomin’ cheek! Okay then, get rinsed down, and quickly, then I’ll dry you. We’ve wasted enough time."

As they parted at the school gate a few minutes later Snooks poked Toby in the chest and said, "And a word of warning. I come into the changing-room around the same time every Thursday – about four-fifteen. When I come through next week you better still not be in the shower like today – and don’t forget it."

"What will happen if I am."

"The same as today – only much worse."

"Wow-ee!"

"So just don’t forget."

"Don’t worry, I won’t."

* *

"A hundred and sixty-five hours to wait!" said Toby, putting down his calculator. "That’s grave; it’s light years. And two days of double Latin in between, not to mention five French periods, six maths 3;"

"Oh, shut up," said Joey. "And light years are distance, not time, pimple-brain. Coo, look at that blood."

"They put a kind of capsule between their teeth and bite it," said Toby. "You don’t know everything. Anyway, do we have to watch this for the third time?"

"Yes," said Joey, "Wowee, look at that!" He clutched his knees, rolled over on the king-size bed, threw his legs out to their full extent, then tucked them under him again. In front of him, Lethal Weapon 27 wound its gory way into hour three. "You know what it’s all about, don’t you?" he asked.

"Considering it’s the fifth time – actually, yes."

"Not the film, dickhead. Snooks, I mean. He wants you to be his pet, you realise that."

Toby considered. "I’m not a boarder."

"It’s unusual, certainly." It was Joey, in fact, who was a boarder at St Sebastian’s; however, as he was Toby’s best friend, he had permission to sleep over on one night a week, the official theory being that they did their homework together. Toby himself lived within a short walking distance from the school.

"I know all about pets, though," said Toby. "Have you ever been a big boy’s pet?"

"It has its advantages," said Joey enigmatically. "You get a lot of help with your prep – and lots of extra feeds and titbits. Toast and Marmite every night, if you want."

"What do you have to do, though?"

"Anything he wants – that’s the deal"

"Anything?"

Joey rolled over, hugged his thighs again, significantly pinged the elastic of his skimpy sky-blue underpants – all he was wearing – and said, "Yep."

Toby considered. "Wow!"

"What kind of a wow was that?" enquired Joey. "I mean, a yes or a no?"

Toby reflected. "Dunno. A maybe 3; I suppose. I’ll have to come back to you on it."

Joey, tucking his knees up, clicked the TV off at the handset, then lay on his front again, idly spinning his legs in the air. He asked, "So what you going to say to him if he asks?"

"I don’t 3; say much," said Toby.

"Well, you should. Don’t let him walk all over you, lip him a bit. Actually, you’re good at that."

"Thanks."

Joey spun on his back, cradling his head and spreadeagling his legs. He said, "Tell me again about this afternoon. Everything."

* *

"What’d I tell you?" demanded Snooks.

"Sorry," said Toby penitently, from the shower.

Snooks waited for the last stragglers to leave the changing-room, then said, "Well, don’t say you weren’t warned," and came over to Toby, pointedly rolling his sleeves up.

"No! Help!" But at the sight he had already begun to goose-pimple deliciously, all over – and already, too, he felt a distinct stirring in front.

Snooks saw it too. "Well, we’ll deal with that in a minute."

Then his large soapy palms were again all over Toby’s chest, back, legs, tummy, with a degree of energy that quickly hoisted that up by umpteen more degrees – which began to raise the tingle-factor even more than last time – and then some 3;

Snooks told him to turn round. "Now bend right over."

"You going to beat me?"

"I should. But no – not for the moment, anyhow. Legs apart, please."

Toby obeyed, then the beefy palms soaped both his rear cheeks hard, then one hand separated his cheeks while the other soaped up and down in between, then under, then right inside, with a diligence that made Toby squawk and wriggle immoderately.

"Quiet!" Snooks slapped him, then made him straighten up and turn round again. In front, it was right up hard against his tummy again – at which Snooks delivered a further slap – right there, and with considerable accuracy. Toby screeched, rocketed up on his toes – then, a moment later, said, "I’ll have another of these."

"Well, you’re not getting one," said Snooks.

Then his left hand moved behind, his forefinger penetrating deeply, the others busy underneath – and his right hand moved with such speed and diligence that the million-volt shock struck almost immediately, that Toby convulsed and screamed – once, twice, thrice – then the wriggling naked youngster grabbed Snooks round the neck with a vehemence that almost brought him down on the tiles too – but he disengaged and waited, impatiently, until Toby had got his breath back again.

"Can we have our shower together next time?" Toby enquired, a little huskily.

Snooks hesitated, then said loftily, "If I feel like it." Then he towelled Toby down and paced the changing-room while Toby pushed himself back into his school uniform.

Outside, at the gate, Snooks lingered. "As it happens, I don’t have to go back inside quite yet. I might just stay and talk to you for a bit."

"Suits me," said Toby. He jumped up on the wall and sat dangling his legs. He had taken a lollipop from his sports bag, now he finished it noisily, then snapped the stick off and started picking his teeth with the broken end. "Who knows, I might even talk to you."

"Look here," said Snooks, "You are getting distinctly impertinent."

Toby shook his head. "I’m not getting impertinent," he said. "I always was. So you better like it."

"Do you want me to take me up to my study and give you a good thrashing?" Snooks enquired.

Toby picked some more. "Don’t care."

"Well, watch it. One more yip out of you 3;"

Toby removed the lollipop stick and turned a bright smile on the older boy. "Yip," he said amiably.

Snooks shrugged. "On second thoughts, you’re not worth the trouble."

Toby broke the stick and threw the pieces at him, but missed. "Double yip?"

"As it happens I disapprove of cruelty to grubs."

"I told you," said Toby, slipping to the ground. "I’m not a grub. Don’t you ever listen."

Snooks grabbed the youngster’s tie, jamming it under his chin, forcing his head back against the wall. He looked all around, then bent forward.

"You want to be mates?" he asked.

"You-you’re choking me," squawked Toby.

Snooks removed his hand, and Toby asked, "You mean, I be your pet?"

"Same thing."

The youngster shrugged. "S-pose. But straighten my tie first."

Snooks cast his eyes up, then straightened Toby’s tie and smoothed his ruffled hair.

"Will that do?" he enquired heavily. "You’ve got a nerve, though."

They strolled along the pavement. Toby said, "I know. My mum says that it’s one of my principal features."

"I thought I’d noted your principal feature already – in the shower, I mean. When are you going to get some hairs?"

"I have some," Toby said indignantly, "and I’ll even let you count them. And I’ll lend you my pocket calculator."

 "Oh, my fingers will do. Of one hand."

The boy groaned. "Why’re you such a pain, Snooks?"

Snooks grabbed Toby again. "Look here, you little – "

"Ah-ah!" said Toby reprovingly. "I’m your pet now, remember."

Snooks sighed. "I thought there’d be a snag." Then he stopped and said, "Right, I have to get back now. Hop it."

"That’s not very nice either," said Toby. "To your pet."

"Come here, you pain," said Snooks, taking Toby’s arm. There was a space between thick bushes. Snooks pushed Toby in, tilted his head back, slid both arms around his neck, then lowered his mouth on to the younger boy’s, pressing his lips down hard, his tongue probing, meeting Toby’s, exploring, twisting around it, working 3; After a time he reached down, unbuttoned Toby’s pants and slid his hand deep inside; he grasped, stroked, kneaded. Toby groaned and writhed in his grasp; after a considerable interval Snooks lifted his head and asked, "Is this better?"

An enthusiastic nod. Then the smaller hand reached forward on its own voyage of exploration.

"Gosh-golly!" said Toby.

"Now hop it," said Snooks.

* *

"That’s gross," said Joey.

"Well, why d’you watch it, then?" Toby rolled Joey over on to his stomach and sat on his bottom. "Now you can’t."

His friend said, "Just thought I might as well see how it ended. You saw that, the knife went right through and came out the back of her neck. Wonder how they do that? Let’s run it again in slow motion."

Toby groaned and reached for the remote control. "It’d spoil it, it’ll be less terrifying if we know how it’s done." He did as Joey requested, then asked, "So what d’you reckon then?"

"You’re in," enthused Joey, sitting up and twisting his arms around his knees. "The cricket-captain, and you a day-bug too. Having such luck is virtually criminal."

"Have you ever been anyone’s pet?" Toby asked curiously. It would be surprising if not, now he thought about it. Joey, he thought, was just about the nicest-looking junior in the school, with his dark eyes and hair, clear light-olive skin and brilliant smile. He was always cheerful and friendly, almost never fought or lost his temper, and everyone liked him. Toby especially liked being with him on the evenings when he stayed over – when, before bed, they lay on the couch or on their beds in nothing but their skimpy Y-fronts, watching videos. Joey was rarely still, threw his long bare legs around a lot and, as now, watched the screen sprawled on his stomach, his pants stretched over his neat round bottom, their lower ends riding up slightly on his two pert rear cheeks. And, then he rolled on his back, Toby would look at the lump in front, wondering what it looked like bare, if he had any hairs 3; Oddly, he had never seen all of Joey, because they were in different classes for games.

Wondering what Joey’s looked like had made Toby’s own begin to tingle. He would have to work something out 3;

" 3; and if you were a boarder he certainly would," Joey was saying.

"Would what?"

"There, you see, you weren’t listening." Joey squirmed on to his tummy. "Now you’ll never know. Never."

"Then just tell me this, widget-face. Will he want to 3;" He hesitated, then daringly poked a finger between Joey’s two chic rear hillocks. "You know."

Joey squirmed a little more, but didn’t move. He considered.

"Not nesser-celery," he said at length, with a professorial air. "But he’ll probably be giving you sticky buns before long – though I suppose you’ll want me to explain what that means."

What would Joey say, Toby thought, if he hooked down these little pants and demonstrated that he knew exactly what sticky buns meant. His head swam slightly at the thought 3; Then he said, "I can work it out, you know. They just put it sort of in between and then joggle about – well, until 3; they sort of shoot off in your crack, don’t they?"

"Exactly," said Joey. He continued solemnly, "It’s usual with pets. They pick them out right at the beginning, you know – eye them over in the showers, in their first week. You get any nice-looking twelve-year-old coming for his first term, and you can bet his buns will be sticky by the end of week one."

"You know a lot about it," said Toby suspiciously.

"Everybody does," said Joey. "Except you, seemingly." He rolled on to his back again, drew his knees up to his chin. "Get another video out – that one where he hangs her guts all round the room."

"Okay." Toby changed the video, then came back. The lump in front of Joey’s pants was bigger, he felt sure. All that talk about buns, the stickying of? He must manage to see it soon; in fact, now he had an idea 3;"

At weekends his dad was home, and usually gave Toby his Saturday night bath. If he were to have Joey stay on a Saturday night, his dad would doubtless put them in the bath together and tub them both, and 3; Toby’s head began to spin again.

And 3; when Joey was stood up to be washed, Toby would have a really close-up view – and wouldn’t Joey’s bits just wobble as Dad soaped them – like Toby’s did.

Which made him notice, suddenly, that he was standing up like a beanpole now; his underpants didn’t hide much and – to avoid questions from Joey, he quickly went over and pretended to look out of the window. Just give it a minute or two.

The door opened. Toby’s mum came in and called him over.

"I’ll take these for the wash," she said, then skinned down Toby’s underpants and made him step out. "I’ll bring a clean pair shortly," she said as she went out.

Joey was staring. "Wow!! Just talking about him 3;"

"Eh – about who?" said Toby, pink-cheeked.

"Snooks. I mean, you must be really gone on him."

"Oh – er – well, maybe." Toby sat on the bed and drew his knees up to his chest. Then he said, "I meant to ask, this Saturday my dad’s taking me to the one-day match at Warleigh. You want to come – and stay over?"

"Oh yes, thanks," said Joey. He thought. "Yes, I’d really like that; it might be a lot of fun."

"It might too," agreed Toby.

* *

"Yipes – you’ve got such strong hands," Toby said. "Oh – wow-ee – can’t you make me squeal."

"And I’ve only just begin." Snooks sat on a chair in his study, and Toby stood between Snooks’ thighs with his cricket shorts and underpants round his ankles, with Snooks’ agile fingers busily engaged both before and behind.

"You know," Snooks said conversationally. "I never thought I was the type to go crazy over a second-former; I must have spent too long on the cricket-field without a hat; it’s the only possible explanation."

He pulled Toby’s face down, kissed him, then Toby said, "Same with me, actually. Why

I bother with a great oik like you I have absolutely no idea; I must be bats."

"Is there no limit to your impudence?" enquired Snooks.

"Probably not," said Tony. "Wow-eee!"

"Incidentally," queried Snooks, "has anyone else ever 3; .?"

"No!" said Toby emphatically. "I’d never let anyone else touch me. Well – my best friend in my class, I’d let him if he wanted to – but that’s all."

Ah – pixie-eyed Prosser of 2B. The second prettiest junior in the school," said Snooks, thoughtfully. "Oh, I’ve noticed him."

"Oh yes," said Toby suspiciously. "Yoiks!"

"Oh, just because he was with you, don’t panic."

"Waaah! What big hands you have, Grandma!" Then Toby reached forward, gently parted Snooks’ lips with his fingers. "And what big teeth."

"All the better to bite you with, m’dear."

"No!"

"Yes! Off with the rest of your clothes – all of them – and on that bed now."

Then Snooks laid Toby on the counterpane, and made thorough play with his tongue, his lips, then his teeth – chewing, nibbling, biting, while Tony screamed and writhed underneath him. Then, in only a minute or so, Toby’s yells rose to a crescendo, his whole body arced repeatedly 3; then slowly he relaxed, sighed, and lay almost still, while Snooks stroked, kissed and licked his face, his chest, his stomach, his thighs. Finally Snooks said, "Time to go," and pulled Toby up.

"S-spose so," said Toby reluctantly, reaching for his clothes.

"Never mind," Snooks said, "Tonight you get sticky buns."

"Oh goody – makes a change from Marmite and your soggy toast," Toby said – and moved very fast.

* *

Late spring, within weeks, turned into high summer. The sun shone; in the school meadows the air was heavy with the scent of bay, willow and hawthorn. Grasshoppers whirred, butterflies fluttered and bees bumbled. The school cricket team, of which Snooks was captain, chalked up six first-innings victories and went to top in the Schools County League. The under-14 team, of which Toby was second reserve, attained seven first-innings defeats and went to second bottom

"You should be ashamed, Toto," said Snooks.

"So should you," said Toby.

"Me?"

"Yes, you. I’m your boy, you should be helping me, giving me extra coaching."

Snooks lay on his back on the study couch, while Toby sprawled naked in his favourite position – tummy-down and legs apart on top of Snooks, running his hand repeatedly through Snooks’ hair, being stroked all over in turn.

"Oh, I suppose I might," said Snooks.

"When?" Toby persisted. "Tomorrow?"

"Thursday?" Snooks made a face. "No, sorry. Got a job to do for the Head in the afternoon. But soon – I promise."

Toby nodded, then Snooks asked, "Did you ever talk to your parents about what I asked – about you becoming a boarder?"

"I’m going to ask this weekend, when my dad’s home. They’ll probably let me be a weekly boarder – you know, here during the week, home at weekends." Toby pressed his head into the angle of Snooks’ head and neck, then asked, "But do you really think you’ll be able to stand having me around nearly all the time?"

Snooks looked up at the ceiling, then said," God help me, I don’t think I’d be able to stand not having you around, Toto. Not now."

"You won’t have to," Toby whispered. His arms tightened round the older boy’s neck. "Absolutely no chance."

"Now hop it!"

* *

At the next junior match, three days later, Toby was bowled out first ball. Put in to field, he dropped a catch, and was banished to the pavilion. To make matters worse, Joey was doing unexpectedly well. He was up to forty now, and applause crackled around the field at every stroke. Toby just couldn’t watch any more. He walked up and down the field behind the pavilion, crossly hitting at the foxgloves and bracken with a willow-rod.

But he regained his spirits on the way home, where he found his mother having tea with Joey’s mother; the latter was a fairly frequent visitor.

"Ah, Toby," his mother said, "Come along in and join us."

Toby shook his head, "No, thanks. I’ve just had tea at school."

"Ah, one of these cricketing spreads?"

"Yes – tea and sticky buns," said Toby, daringly.

"That is nice, dear. I just hope it hasn’t spoiled your appetite for dinner."

"Oh no, not at all." Toby was turning to go when a name caught his ear, and he paused.

Joey’s mother was saying, "Yes – he takes a great interest – and he’s the captain of cricket, too. Nooks or Tooks his name is. Meets Joey for special coaching in the Long Meadow every Thursday, he must think a lot of him. Such an interest this Crooks takes – and of course Joey’s always going on about him. And his cricket has come on so much."

"That is nice," said Toby’s mother again, pouring tea. She caught sight of Toby in the doorway. "Did you say anything, dear?"

"Was the name 3; Snooks?" Toby asked.

"Yes, of course," said Joey’s mother. "Snooks. I knew it was something like that."

"Thank you," said Toby. He went out slowly into the back garden where – astonishingly – everything looked exactly as it had done a few minutes before. He sat in a bench, completely still. No – it just couldn’t be true. He must have misheard, or at least misunderstood. It just wasn’t possible. Snooks, who had said all these things to him – and Joey, his best friend for two years. But – he began to remember things 3; The way that Snooks had spoken about Joey very recently, how he had then wanted to change the subject 3; Snooks’ little "job" on Thursday afternoons in the Long Meadow – incidentally, the field furthest away from the school. That very "job" that had prevented Snooks from coaching him, Toby. And also, Joey’s new-found prowess on the cricket-field. It was all beginning to make sense – horrible sense.

After what seemed an age, Toby got up and walked down the garden. Inside, the successive stabs of misery were so bad he had to fight for control. No – he wouldn’t cry, he wouldn’t give in.

Sheer anger suddenly took over. See if he cared? He’d go fishing. He ran and got his bike; he’d show them.

Then he picked up the bike and threw if furiously to the ground. Even better 3; He went to his father’s study, raided the desk, found notepaper, and envelope, and a first-class stamp. Then, at a small table in his bedroom, he struggled to put on to paper, though crudely and awkwardly, the worst feelings of hurt, anger and betrayal he had experienced in all of his thirteen short years. The letter ran to three pages. He ended it: " 3; and I never ever want to have anything more to do with you ever again, or ever to talk to you, or ever to see you. Ever. Love, Toby." Then he saw what he had written and angrily tore up the final sheet and rewrote it. He addressed the letter to Snooks at the school and, almost calmly now, he cycled to the post office. He was in time for the last post. Good – the letter would arrive first thing tomorrow.

It wasn’t until dark, when Toby’s head was buried in his pillow, that the tide finally broke. And the vehemence of the storm shook his entire body for hour after hour.

* *

In the morning Toby was pale and exhausted, but calm again. He dressed with particular attention, putting on a clean shirt, combing his hair and knotting his tie carefully. He had always taken particular trouble for Snooks, and didn’t see why he should make any difference now. However, he was unlikely to see Snooks today; their paths didn’t cross in the normal course of events. During the morning he thought of Snooks’ face as he read the letter, and wished that the thought gave him more pleasure. The main difficulty today, though, would be confronting Joey. Worse, this was his usual night to stay over.

At four o’clock Joey came zooming towards the gate on his bicycle. "Hey, I’ve got a new video. Listen while I tell you about it; you won’t be able to wait to see it."

Toby waited till he had come up, then he said shortly, "Sorry, but you won’t be able to come this evening."

Joey’s eyes opened wide. "What?"

Toby said again, "Sorry." He turned away, but Joey came after him and put an arm on his shoulder. "Toby, what’s wrong?"

Roughly, Toby shook the hand off. "I just said you can’t, that’s all."

Joey stared. At a different time Toby would have been sensitive to the deep hurt in his friend’s eyes, but now he just burst out furiously, "How can you ask me what’s wrong – how can you? I mean – you and Snooks – my best mate and my 3; I mean, how could you?"

Joey took a deep breath. "Toto," he said calmly, "Could you explain just what you are talking about?"

For a moment Joey’s puzzlement looked so genuine that Toby hesitated, then he demanded, "Look, do you deny that you and Snooks have been meeting every week in the Long Meadow, that he’s been giving you cricket coaching? Do you?" His voice rose again and angry tears came to his eyes. Furiously, he dashed then away. "Well, do you?"

"Oh, that? Well – no, I don’t, but – "

"Well, then!"

"Just listen. Yes, I’ve been meeting Snooks in the Long Meadow. Me – and twenty-seven others. Namely, the whole of my class. The Head decided we needed extra coaching, and got Snooks to do it. He doesn’t even want to, complains all the time."

Toby’s mouth had fallen open. "You and t-twenty 3; ?" he queried foolishly.

"Just that. With me, twenty-eight."

"So – you and Snooks haven’t 3;"

"Toto, I don’t think he even knows my name."

Toby looked down at the ground for a long moment, then he said, "Gosh, I’m sorry, Joey. I’m really sorry."

"S’okay."

Toby still couldn’t look at him. "I’ve been rotten to you. I suppose – I suppose you don’t want anything more to do with me now?"

Joey punched him and said, "Don’t be such a dodo. Anyway, it was partly my fault, I should have told you. So 3;" He held out his palm. "Best mates still, okay?"

Toby broke into a broad smile; he slapped Joey’s palm enthusiastically, and said, "You bet! Okay – just let me get my bike, then – "

Suddenly he stopped short, clapped a hand to his mouth. "Oh, my God!"

"What now!" asked Joey.

Toby dashed helter-skelter back to the school, scattering books and papers as he went. Joey called after him, but he didn’t heed. Oh God, oh God, he just had to 3; In the main corridor, he skidded to a halt. What time was it? Four-fifteen; classes would be over by now. Try the common-room – no, try his study.

He careered upstairs and then along the narrow corridor to the prefects’ dormitories. Please let him be there – please.

The assistant matron was coming out of Snooks’ door, carrying a bundle of sheets.

"Sorry," she said to Toby. "He went out a while ago, and hasn’t come back." She looked at her watch. "Odd – he should be back by now."

Toby thanked her and spun round. What had he done?

He went further along the corridor, hesitated, then rapped at the door of the prefects’ common-room, then poked his head in – a thing he wouldn’t have dared to do normally.

"Well – it’s Snooks’ pretty day-bug!"

"Excuse me, please – have you seen him?
"Sorry, kid – he nipped out after class, didn’t stay to talk. Rather rushed off actually. But never mind, pretty day-bug, why don’t you 3;?

"Thanks," said Toby, closing the door again.

In the corridor he found a window where he could see the front gate, and stood there, gripping the wooden sill, for he didn’t know how long

Please.

But no Snooks – or anybody.

Should he go out and look for him? But look where? Toby had no idea. It was hopeless.

Much more slowly, he trailed back downstairs again. In the main washroom he splashed his face, then looked at himself in the mirror – pale, tense, his lips pressed tight together, though now beginning to quiver noticeably. His reflection in the glass swam a little, and once again he made a great effort at self-control.

I really couldn’t bear not to have you around, Toto.

Toby again confronted his reflection. "Whatever happens," he said quietly, "It will be your fault."

And he didn’t think he could live with that.

Moving like a sleep-walker, he went down the corridor and out of the front door, then came back again. The school secretary’s office was just inside the main entrance, and she tended to keep tabs on most people’s comings and goings. However, at Toby’s query she also shook her head. "Sorry, I’ve no idea. He’s a senior prefect and doesn’t need permission to come and go." She took a closer look. "Ah, young Trotter, isn’t it? You do – um – errands for him, don’t you?"

At a different time Toby would have wondered just how much she really knew, but he simply nodded. Still, the secretary was a wise old bird and – like most wise old birds – she kept her own counsel. She just said, "Well, it’s only five-thirty; why not wait for him in his study?"

Toby nodded again. "All right – thanks," he said dully, turning to leave.

"Good," said the secretary, "Oh – and one more thing."

She reached into a pigeonhole alongside.

"This letter came for him today," she said. "You can take it up with you."

"When the Head Chorister wears short trousers, then the smaller boys have something to look up to."

Primus.

"Play that piece again, sir. Do you want me to turn over for you?"

Secundus.

"I can pull stops too. I’ve pulled some as big as yours, sir."

Tertius.

"That’s enough, Chiddleton," I said.

The Head Chorister considered, then said, "If it’s enough, then you should be pleased. People are. You should only be upset when it’s too much."

"It is too much," I said. "You are too much. And your face is dirty."

"Take me back and give me a shower, then, sir. Rub me down all over. I warn you, though, I’m ticklish, when you get to – some of me."

* *

I went to the Dean after that. It would be impossible for me to accompany the carol service with Chiddleton so close, with Chiddleton in the organ loft. I could have added that it would be all but impossible to maintain a semblance of musical rhythm with Chiddleton – the beautiful, wicked Chiddleton – anywhere in England – but I didn’t go that far. I simply said that the Head Chorister’s solo would sound better from the West Gallery – the one right at the back.

But the Very Rev shook his head. "Won’t do, Barnaby. It’s our big show of the year, people like to see them. Especially that Chiddleton. Around Christmas, everybody – little old ladies especially, really goes for the golden-haired, blue-eyed type. Or so I’ve heard."

I left the little old lady to her meditations. Back in the Abbey I found Chiddleton, too, in thoughtful mood.

"Sir, I knew a very clever organist once that could play the music with just his right hand and his feet. Leaving his left hand free for other things. You’d be surprised, sir, if I told you what other things."

"Page 3," I said, "I’d like to hear that final section again."

"You know what I’d like, sir?"

"I know what you need, Chiddleton," I said incautiously, "Which is to have your bottom smacked."

"That’s true, sir, Mr Boodle is always smacking it. He says it’s the cheekiest botty in the choir-school. He likes to make it rosy, he says."

"We do not comment on what the Headmaster likes or does not like, Chiddleton. It would be an impertinence."

"Sorry, Sir."

I played over the introduction. Chiddleton said thoughtfully, "How nice to be so good with your hands. Big, strong hands 3; Shall I tell you, then, what I’d really, really like?"

 "No, thank you."

 He told me anyway.

I went to the Dean again and revealed all – well, almost all. Not, for example, about my cassock having to go back to the laundry – again.

"I can’t do it," I said.

The Dean became grave, talked of self-control, offered to lend me a booklet. But he was adamant. The solo had to be sung from the organ-loft. By Chiddleton.

* *

Et ecce angelus Domini 3;

Christmas Eve. And we came to an arrangement, Chiddleton and I. An arrangement for right hand and pedals. "I like it," he said, bending across the organ stool to look.

Lord, grant me continence, on this night of all nights.

Chiddleton sat on the stool, swinging his legs. "Anyone ever given you a bet, sir?"

"What are you talking about? What kind of a bet?"

He screwed up his face, then said thoughtfully, "Well, just to take a kind of example – a rather silly example, really – if someone betted you that you’d come to the carol service in only your cassock and surplice and with nothing underneath – nothing at all 3; "

I gulped. "Purely as an example 3; ?"

"Naturally."

"Well, not just for the bet, of course. But if it was something I wanted, perhaps 3;"

Chiddleton nodded. "Exactement". He came closer. "Check it out."

"If it’s a matter of a bet," I said sternly, "it must of course be checked out. It’s the right thing to do."

"You couldn’t do anything else, sir."

I checked.

"Check thoroughly, sir," said Chiddleton after a moment or two.

"Naturally I must," I agreed.

"Don’t forget what I said about big organ-stops, sir," said Chiddleton a little later, his voice with an unaccustomed tremolo. He pointed. "I’ll pull that one if you like."

"Or perhaps 3;" With a quick and unexpected movement he jumped into my lap.

And there went another cassock.

But the apocalyptic pinnacle came in the solo, with Chidlet extravagantly unbuttoned below the carved parapet. And with Chidlet accompanied in the correct and proper manner – treble with the right hand, bass with the pedals, and left hand for stop-pulling. Very diligent stop-pulling. But then, it was Christmas Eve.

* *

Over the mulled wine and cake, they were rapturous.

"The feeling!" said the Dean, "The emotion! And at the climax – what I can only describe as a note of pure ecstasy."

"And the facial expression," said Lady Twittering, "The sheer bliss! Clearly a boy who puts his heart and soul into his music."

Chiddelton came from nowhere; he fixed Lady Twittering with large and soulful eyes. "I owe it all to Mr Barnaby," he said. He turned his earnest gaze in my direction. "It was he who stimulated me."

"Have some cake, Chiddleton," I said. "Lots of cake."

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