had seemed a God-sent compromise solution at the time - close enough for regular meetings but far enough to reduce the decision on setting up house to a problem of geography.
But even small distances work large disenchantments. Wield had once been proud of his fierce fidelity but now he saw it as a form of naïve self-centredness. He recalled with amazement and shame his near-hysterical outburst of jealous rage when Maurice had finally admitted he was seeing somebody else. For thirty minutes he had been the creature of the emotions he had controlled for as many years. And he had never seen Maurice again since that day.
The only person who ever got a hint of what he had gone through was Mary, his sister. They had never spoken openly of Wield’s sexuality, but a bond of loving understanding existed between them. Two years after the break with Maurice, she had left Yorkshire too when her husband was made redundant and decided that Canada held more hope for his family than this British wasteland.
So now Wield was alone. And had remained alone, despite all temptation, treating the core of his physical and emotional being as if it were some physiological disability, like alcoholism, requiring total abstinence for control.
There had been small crises. But from the first second he had heard Sharman’s voice on the phone, he had felt certain that this was the start of the last battle.
He went over their conversation again, as he might have gone over an interrogation transcript in the station.
‘Where’d you meet Maurice?’ he’d asked.
‘In London.’
‘London?’
‘Yeah. He moved down from the North a couple of years back, didn’t you know that?’
It was a redundant question, the boy knew the answer. Wield said, ‘New job? Is he still with the Post Office?’
‘British Telecom now. Onward and upward, that’s Mo.’
‘And he’s … well?’
Perhaps he shouldn’t have let the personal query, however muted, slip out. The boy had smiled as he replied, ‘He’s fine. Better than ever before, that’s what he says. It’s different down there, see. Up North, it may be the ’eighties in the calendar, but there’s still a ghetto mentality, know what I mean? I’m just quoting Mo, of course. Me, this is the first time I’ve got further north than Wembley!’
‘Oh aye? Why’s that?’
‘Why’s what?’
‘Why’ve you decided to explore, lad? Looking for Solomon’s mines, is it?’
‘Sorry? Coal mines, you mean?’
‘Forget it,’ said Wield. ‘Just tell us why you’ve come.’
The boy hesitated. Wield read this as a decision-making pause, choosing perhaps between soft-sell and hard-sell, between freeloading and blackmail.
‘Just fancied a change of scene,’ said Sharman at last. ‘Mo and me decided to have a bit of a hol from each other …’
‘You were living together?’
‘Yeah, natch.’ The youth grinned knowingly. ‘You two never managed that, did you? Always scared of the neighbours, Mo said. That’s why he likes it down there. No one gives a fuck who’s giving a fuck!’
‘So you decided to take a trip to Yorkshire and see me?’ said Wield.
‘No! I just set off hitching and today I got dumped here and the name of the place rang a bell and I said, hello, why not get in touch with Mo’s old mate and say hello? That’s all.’
He didn’t sound very convincing, but even if he had, Wield was not in a convincible mood. Hitchhikers didn’t get dropped at bus stations.
He said, ‘So Maurice told you all about me?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Sharman confidently. ‘He was showing me some old photos in bed one night and I said, Who’s that? and he told me all about you and the thing you had together and having to keep it quiet because you were a cop and all that!’
The real pain came at that moment, the pain of betrayal, sharp and burning still as on that first occasion, an old wound ripping wide.
‘It’s always nice to hear from old friends,’ said Wield softly. ‘How long are you planning on staying, Cliff?’
‘Don’t know,’ said the boy, clearly puzzled by this gentle response. ‘Might as well take a look round now I’m here, see the natives sort of thing. I’ll need to find somewhere to kip, not too pricey though. Any suggestions?’
The first squeeze? Well, he had to sleep somewhere and it made sense to keep a close eye on him till the situation got clearer. Wield examined this conclusion for self-deceiving edges, but quickly gave up. You didn’t devote your life to deceiving others without becoming expert at deceiving yourself.
‘You can sleep on my couch tonight,’ he had said.
‘Can I? Thanks a million,’ said the boy with a smile which hovered between gratitude and triumph. ‘I promise I’ll curl up so small that you’ll hardly know I’m there at all.’
But he was there, in the bathroom, splashing and singing like a careless child. Wield was acutely aware of his presence. His existence had been monastic for a long time. There had been another dark-skinned boy, a police cadet, who had ambushed his affections against his will, but nothing had come of it, and the cadet had been posted away. Sharman reminded him of that boy and he knew that, if anything, the danger was even greater now than then. But the danger to what? His way of life? What kind of life was it that a simple surge of desire put at risk?
The youth’s bag was lying on the floor. More to distract himself than anything else, Wield leaned forward, unzipped it and began to examine the contents. There wasn’t much. Some clothes, shoes, a couple of paperbacks and a wallet.
He opened the wallet. It contained about sixty or seventy pounds in fivers. In the other pocket were two pieces of paper. One had some names and telephone numbers scribbled on it. One name leapt out of the page. Mo. He made a note of the number and turned his attention to the other piece of paper. This was a timetable for coaches from London to the North. A departure time was underlined and the arrival time in Yorkshire. The latter was about ten minutes before Sharman’s call to the Station. The little bastard hadn’t hung about. So much for his talk of arriving here by chance!
He heard the water running from the bath. Quickly he returned everything to the bag. He had no doubt that Sharman would emerge all provocatively naked and he rehearsed his own coldly scornful response as he demanded explanations.
The door opened. The boy came into the room, his hair spiky from washing, his slim brown body enveloped in Wield’s old towelling robe.
‘God, I enjoyed that,’ he said. ‘Any chance of some cocoa and a choc biscuit?’
He sat on the sofa, curling his feet up beneath him. He looked little more than fourteen and as relaxed and uncalculating as a tired puppy.
Wield tried not to admit to himself he was
