Preview First Chapter of                  BLASPHEMY

                  by     Roger N. Taber

First Edition
Copyright © 2006 Roger N. Taber
All rights reserved. Printed in the U.S.A.

No part of this book may be reproduced by any mechanical, photographic, or electronic process,
or in the form of an electronic recording, nor may it be stored in a retrieval system, transmitted, translated
into another language, or otherwise copied for public or private use, excepting brief passages quoted
for purposes of review, without the written permission of the publisher.

Published in the United States by GLB Publishers
P.O. Box 78212, San Francisco, CA 94107
www.GLBpubs.com

Cover art by the author
Cover Design by the author and GLB Publishers

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the
author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
events, or locales is entirely coincidental

Library of Congress Cataloguing Control Number
2006924808

ISBN  1-879194-61-9
9781879194618
First printing Sept. 2006

CHAPTER ONE

I belong to a generation made to feel that being gay is a cross one had to bear. Then I met Harry
and discovered, for the first time, that sexuality need not matter. Two people love each other, end
of story. Or, so I came to believe. Yet every story has its ups and downs, twists and turns. Somehow,
I lost sight of all that. I thought I was content, happy. A part of me was—the part that had waited so
long to belong.

It was the same for Harry. During our early years together, we often talked about such things. Then,
somewhere along the line, we stopped talking and began to live on assumptions. Whenever I reflect
on our time together, a warm glow spreads inside me. But it has taken a while to recover that glow.
Our story ended abruptly and I had to find myself—and Harry—all over again. How I succeeded
remains a mystery to me, almost as much a mystery as the runaway course my life took during those
months long ago, but as yesterday….

Monday morning began much like any other. Harry was still asleep when I woke to brilliant sunshine
forcing an entry through the thin curtains at our bedroom window. I went to the bathroom, washed and
shaved. Then I returned to the bedroom and got dressed. By now, Harry was half-awake. He watched
me with a lazy grin on his face.

"You look good enough to eat," he chuckled.

I frowned self-consciously. I always wore a suit to work because it went with the job. Harry found this
hilarious and had teased me about it from the start. When we first met, I had been wearing 501s and
a bright orange tee shirt.

"Why don't you just shut up and get up," I retorted. It was all part of a long established ritual.

We bantered, tit-for-tat, all the way through breakfast. He saw me to the front door. When my hand was
on the catch, he grabbed my arm, swung me round and kissed me fiercely on the mouth. As usual,
I made a brief show of breaking away, protesting impatiently, "I have to get to work!"

"Why? Stay home and let's make love." He tugged at the knot of my tie.

"You're impossible!"

"Would you have me any other way?"

"No," I confessed ruefully. We kissed again. I put my arms around his neck and let my tongue play
between his lips.

He pushed me away and gave me a long, old-fashioned look. "I love you, Laurence."

"I love you, too."

There were tears in his eyes, his normal high spirits subdued. But he had always been something
of a drama queen and I thought nothing of it. He gave me a hug, rested his chin on my shoulder and
I felt the dampness of his cheek against mine. I glanced at my watch. "I'll miss my train!" I protested
half-heartedly.

"So? Be a devil, miss it!"

"I'll be late!" I pointed out. Even so, I might have caught the next train if he had asked me again. He didn't.
Instead, we broke away, shared an intimate grin and kissed for the last time. A few minutes later, I was
pelting down the road towards the railway station.

In the event, my train was late—very late. It put me in a bad mood for the rest of the day. At least I
preferred to blame a shoddy rail network for my being testy to the point of rudeness with staff and
clients alike. I couldn't wait for five o'clock to arrive. Yet when it did I was strangely reluctant to leave
the office. I was still at the computer when Ivor, our cleaner, arrived at five-thirty.

"Going to be long, Mr Fisher?"

"No, Ivor, I'll be finished in a jiff." I had finished ages ago.

"Don't hurry on my account. I'll make a start on the loos." He disappeared. I hesitated for no reason,
staring at spreadsheets and making nothing of them. Finally, I logged off and reached for my jacket.

I missed the 17.50 and whiled away twenty minutes in the Flying Horse. Max and Mo who ran the
pub were old friends. While I chatted to Mo, a colleague came up to me at the Lounge bar and
perched on a stool.

"Hello, Laurence."

"Hello, Nick."

Nick Carter was one of our newest recruits and earmarked for a partnership if he continued to run
true to his present form. I did not like him much. He was brash, aggressive, cocksure and self-opinionated,
all virtues in marketing, of course.

"Had a bad day?" He grinned wryly. Doubtless my bad temper has made itself felt throughout the building.

"Not good," I admitted.

"Can I buy you a drink?"

I glanced at my watch. "Another time," I murmured and beat a hasty retreat without even saying goodbye.

On the journey home, I couldn't settle. I abandoned my crossword, turned several pages of a paperback
novel without taking in a word, then gazed out of the window, absorbing the colourless suburbia rushing
past with precious little enthusiasm. When I finally arrived at my front door, the key would not turn in the
lock. I swore and rang the bell. While I waited for Harry, I observed—as I invariably did—that the old
house could use a lick of paint.

No Harry.

I rang the bell again, glanced across instinctively and waved to May Finn, our next-door neighbour.
Net curtains twitched and fell back sharply. The widow Finn was neither a bad neighbour nor a
particularly friendly one.

No Harry.

I tried the key again. It resisted. At last, it gave. I went inside and knew immediately that something
was wrong. The house was too quiet. Nor was it merely a sense of emptiness. I could no more put
my finger on it than explain the dragging restlessness that had oppressed me all day.

"Harry?" I called out. No reply. I went into the sitting room. No Harry. I tried the kitchen, again without
success. I went upstairs. By this time, I was sweating profusely. I took off my jacket, loosened the
knot of my tie.

The bedroom door was wide open. I could see Harry lying on the bed. He was fully dressed, wearing
a tee shirt of mine. I knew right away that he was dead. I entered the room and coolly felt for a pulse.
Nothing. Incredibly, I did not panic. On the contrary, I carried on as if nothing out of the ordinary had
taken place. It was bizarre. I changed my clothes, taking care to avoid looking at the bed. After hanging
my suit in the big double wardrobe, I grabbed a pair of jeans and a tee shirt draped over a chair and
pulled them on.

When my head emerged from the pale blue cotton, it was facing Harry. I more than half-expected him
to open his eyes, stretch, grin and say, "Hello." Instead, nothing happened at all except that I began
to shiver. I grabbed a sweater and pulled it over my head. One arm could not find a sleeve. Now I
began to panic. By the time I had managed to wriggle into the thing, I was in a cold sweat. I went
and sat on the edge of the bed, stared at Harry without seeing him and felt again for a pulse.
Nothing. He was stone cold. I hadn't taken in the coldness before. Now, it numbed me all over.

An envelope caught my eye. It had fallen to the floor. My blurred vision cleared as if on cue. I recognized
Harry's spidery handwriting. It hit me between the eyes. I read my name between hazy lines, a crackling
noise in my ears. For an instant, I thought I was watching TV and all I had to do was adjust the set to
make everything okay. I even got up and went to the portable on a table at the end of the bed. Reaching
for the controls, I checked myself. Realization began to dawn. I picked up the telephone and put it down
again. Returning, I knelt and picked up the manila envelope. It was some time, though, before I opened it.
My name flickered and flared before my eyes. Words, danced crazily. Suddenly, the familiar scrawl settled
down and allowed me to read:

     My dearest Laurie…sorry…tried to tell you but couldn't…no other way…can't face it…should have
     told you…so sorry…it didn't mean anything…a one-night stand ages ago…unlucky…wrote and
     told me…HIV+ …had a test…positive… such a coward, I know…please forgive me…love you so much…

Each word entered a different part of my body like a skewer. Soon, I was writhing in agony. My hands
moved to lay the letter on the bed. But my fingers would not let go. In desperation, I scrambled up and
ran downstairs, still clutching the flimsy piece of paper.

The next few hours passed as if in a nightmare. The police. The doctor. The ambulance. So many
questions, questions, more questions. Police, again. Doctor, again. Neighbours. Good words, bad
words, kind words…all talking at me. High voices, low voices, strange voices. Bleak silences…

Where was Harry, I wanted to know? Harry was so much better at dealing with this kind of thing than me.

Hours stretched into days, days into weeks. Inquest, adjourned. Funeral—no flowers by request.
"Man born of woman has but a short time to live…"

Cause of death: an overdose of amphetamines. Verdict: suicide.

More than once, Harry had expressed a wish to be buried in the local churchyard. "Or somewhere
just like this," he would say each time we worshipped at the little church. "It's so pretty and peaceful here."

But the vicar was adamant. "Suicide, he insisted, "is a cardinal sin. God gave us life. To throw so
precious a gift back in His face is a terrible blasphemy. I cannot, will not be seen to sanction it.
I'm very sorry," he added.

So Harry was cremated. His family made the journey by train from Southampton— parents, two
brothers and a sister. They booked into a local hotel and ignored me. None of my own family
attended—just a few old friends, the widow Finn, that was all.

That travesty of a chapel was the loneliest place on earth for me that sunny afternoon. Sunlight
streaming through windows of plain glass made the chaplain's ruddy face glow, like a cosy fire.
I longed to put my hands to it and warm myself. Instead, I sat or stood as the bland service dictated
and silently watched, listened, froze.

Only the widow Finn came back to the house for a cup of tea. She did not stay long. We had hardly
spoken before Harry's death. But the next morning, she was back, asking if there was anything she
could do.

"Thank you, but no," I said and tried to sound grateful.

"I can make us both a cup of tea for a start," she declared briskly and, before I could protest, marched
into the kitchen and put the kettle on. The woman irritated me. I longed for her to go and leave me to
my thoughts. Yet, as soon as she left, I missed her presence. As for my thoughts, they just gave me
a splitting headache.

I saw to everything myself. I borrowed a book from the public library about what to do when someone
dies and carefully followed every procedure, step by step. It was just as well since Harry's family kept
their distance. They came to the funeral but that was all and left immediately afterwards, washing their
hands of the whole gut-wrenching business except to communicate with Harry's solicitor as and when
appropriate. I imagine it came as a great disappointment to them that we had taken out a joint
mortgage and I was the sole beneficiary mentioned in Harry's will.

When I returned to work, everyone made sympathetic noises. They were also curious. The local
freebie had run a story on Harry and me: Gay lover with AIDS commits suicide. No one had known
that Harry and I were lovers. They were dying to ask questions. Instead, numerous hints were
dropped. Innuendoes buzzed around the office like flies and I made no effort to squash them.
My failure to respond to what was, after all, but concern for a colleague caused my hackles to rise.
Whisperings behind my back grew louder.

One day, someone asked me outright if I had AIDS. I was ready for it. The day before Harry's funeral
I had gone for an HIV test.

The test proved negative. A balding man wearing a white coat and severe expression told me to
come back in another three months. He demanded to know if Harry and I had practised safe sex.

"We trusted each other!" I said angrily. It was then the awful truth finally struck home. Harry had
betrayed me. It had been on my mind of course, haunted me day and night but only as an abstract
thought. Now I was obliged to grasp the nettle. Oh, he loved me. I knew that. Nor would he have hurt
me for the world, I knew that too. Yet he had gone with another man without a thought for his own
safety or mine. Worse, he hadn't even told me. "Why," I asked baldy, "didn't Harry tell me? We told
each other everything. How come he felt the need to go with someone else anyway? Was it just
sexual or…" Words failed me.

Baldy had no answers. He fiddled with a button on his coat, tapped with two fingers on his desk and
poured over a leaflet, lips pursed. No help there. I rose to leave. I'd taken a few paces towards the
door, looming so-invitingly on the edge of my blurred horizon, when he called me back sharply and
thrust a leaflet at me. I pocketed it and left.

At work, things got steadily worse. On my birthday, I arrived a few minutes late to find a gift-wrapped
package on my desk. I opened it. Inside, a cheeky card signed by everyone in the office was attached
to—a vibrator. I tried to ignore the snickers and concentrate on my job. It wasn't easy. I stuck it out
until mid-day then pleaded a migraine and went home.

Incredibly, I was forty-two. It was also my first birthday without Harry for nearly twelve years. I had no
plans to celebrate. I had forgiven Harry. Or so I kept telling myself. Forgiven his betrayal, that is. As
for his leaving me to make a life of sorts without him, that was something else. Another can of worms
altogether was learning to forgive myself. Why, in God's name, hadn't I noticed Harry's distress? How
could I have become so self-centered, so utterly self-absorbed that my own partner found me
unapproachable? Had I distanced myself so far from our love? Looking back, I saw that I had.
We hadn't even shared the same bed in ages, until that last night. Now I knew why. It had nothing
to do with those migraines he'd kept pleading.

Even on that last night, we hadn't made love, only kissed and cuddled. And Harry had insisted we
undress in the dark. "Let's be decadent and mysterious," he'd laughed and so had I. If only I hadn't
fallen for his ruse, I'd have seen the telltale lesions on his body.

They had been good years, happy years. So much so that I had taken them for granted, Harry too.
I took everything there was to be had and loved every moment. Only, somewhere along the way
it must all have become a habit or sorts—even love. How else to explain such depths of loneliness
and despair that had led my lover to take his own life? Poor Harry. I had failed him completely.
He must have been terrified. No one should have to take on the threat of AIDS by themselves.
But he wasn't alone, I argued with my alter ego in growing desperation. We could have faced it
together. With medication, people lived for years with the HIV virus these days. Had he so little
faith in me, then, and in our love for each other? He knew how much I loved him, surely? How
could he have shut me out so? I almost hated him for that.

On reflection, I realised that I had never actually told Harry just how much he meant to me, never
sat down with him and spelt out the words he'd murmur often enough in my ear. It was too easy,
I thought, to say, "I love you" and expect to be believed. I was glad I had said it one last time,
glad too that we had kissed goodbye. But I should have sensed something was wrong, surely?
Perhaps I had—and closed my mind to it? If that were true, what kind of a monster did that make
me and how could I live with myself? "Damn Harry! Damn, damn, damn!" I sobbed quietly.

And so it went on…

Much as I detested being at work, it was preferable to staying at home with my thoughts for I had
few visitors. Harry and I enjoyed a good social life but chiefly in each other's company.

We hadn't set out to insulate our togetherness, it just happened that way. Neither Harry's relatives
nor mine could bring themselves to endorse our relationship by staying in touch. So, that was family
out of the way. As for friends, laughingly sceptical at first, fewer and fewer bothered as the years
passed, yet still we stayed together. In the beginning, we gave parties and people dropped by all
the time. But other guys always flirted with Harry and he loved it. In spite of myself, I would get jealous.
I'd tell myself how it must hurt, seeing Harry and me so happy together while they, poor sods, were
having to settle for one-night stands and short-lived affairs. Compassion, however, was never one
of my stronger points. One evening, I emptied a full glass of beer over a particularly good-looking
acquaintance with whom Harry had been dancing cheek to cheek for a good half an hour. There was
a dreadful scene. Eventually, I locked myself in the bedroom and cried myself to sleep. Harry moved
into the spare room and we barely exchanged a civil word for days. Finally, in early hours, I was roughly
awakened to discover him kneeling on the bed, a hand over my mouth. "Scream and I'll make love to
you till dawn," he grimaced and removed his hand.

I screamed.

After that, we drifted away from the old crowd and they were never replaced. The telephone rang less
and less. A flood of invitations to this ‘do' and that became a trickle, eventually drying up altogether.
It was a gradual process, nothing dramatic. If I ever had cause to reflect, it was not with undue concern.
I had Harry. We had each other. It was enough.

I honestly believed that Harry was happy too. Not any more. How could he have been, to do what he did?
Day after day, I was plagued by doubts as persistent as leeches; they clung to every part of me as if
determined to drain away the last drop of my lifeblood.

One evening, I called in at the Flying Horse for the first time in months. Mo had turned up at Harry's funeral.
A nice gesture, I thought. Although I had every intention of writing to thank her, I hadn't got around to it so
decided to drop by instead. It was a shade self-consciously, therefore, that I caught her eye at the busy lounge bar.

"Laurence, how nice to see you!" she seemed genuinely pleased. My flagging spirits began to revive. It has
been a typically hectic day at the office, not to mention the usual snide remarks. Mo's huge, welcoming smile
was just the tonic I needed.

"The usual, please, Mo."

"On the house."

"Thanks. I should come here more often." I even managed an appreciative grin.

"You should and it's my pleasure. How have you been?"

We chatted briefly until she had to serve someone else. I took a swig and looked around. The place had
been refurbished. The new decor was tasteful and easy on the eye, the furnishings an impressive mixture
of polished mahogany, brass knobs and red velvet seating. The fluorescent lighting was subdued and pink.
Everyone and everything had a rosy glow about them. I liked it. It crossed my mind that Harry, too, would
have approved. He often met me here, especially if we were going to the cinema or theatre straight from work. Instinctively, I glanced at my watch and had to check myself for wondering when I could expect him to turn up.
Harry was always late…

"Hello Laurence."

I recognized the voice and every muscle stiffened. I turned, the smile on my face a purely reflex action.
"Hello, Nick." I kept my tone neutral, verging on downright rude. True, Nick Carter had kept a low profile
at the office, distancing himself from the constant stream of homophobic remarks to which I was daily
subjected, albeit discreetly enough to leave my line manager unmoved. In my book, though, passive
acceptance of the status quo was no defence.

There followed a long, awkward silence before, "Look, Laurence, I had nothing to do with that birthday
fiasco!" he coloured. In the pinkie light, he looked apoplectic. I had to laugh. He misunderstood and
visibly relaxed.

"You signed the card," I said accusingly.

He shrugged. "How was I to know what the others were planning?"

"You could have made it your business to find out," I snapped. "You surely didn't imagine they had
flowers or chocolates in mind?"

"I guess not," Nick mumbled, looked sheepish and began to move away. He'd only taken a few steps
when he paused and turned. "I'm really sorry about your boyfriend," he blurted, "I mean, suicide…
you must be devastated."

I started. It was the first time anyone had said that to me. Oh, a few people had muttered vague
condolences, at the same time plainly desperate to avoid any mention of sexuality, let alone suicide.
No one had hinted at just what it might mean to me, acknowledged the intimacy of my relationship
with Harry. Apart from the local rag and the subsequent cold-shouldering of various colleagues,
everyone had contrived to keep their sympathy in the abstract, no one quite wanting to get real.

"Thank you," I said warily and found myself reluctantly warming to the man. He edged towards me
again, slightly. I took in the closely cropped red hair, the hazel eyes and freckles. He had thin lips but
a pleasant enough smile and a cute mole on his left cheek. A tall man, I knew him to be twenty-eight
years old. A bright, ambitious chap he'd go far, I thought, and chuckled. People had said that about
me once. I hadn't done so badly, either. But nor had I scaled the heights of my profession that mentors
at the London School of Economics intended for me. Nor had it ever mattered—until now.

It hurt to admit that I was jealous of Nick Carter. Nor was I only jealous of a promising future that surely
lay ahead of him, but jealous too, especially perhaps of his youth. In a flash, I thought I understood
what Oscar Wilde meant when he so ingenuously proclaimed himself a lover of youth from the
witness box. I chuckled again. Poor Oscar. It may not have been the most diplomatic declaration
in the circumstances but it was a great epitaph all the same. Harry, too, had adored the simplistic
beauty of youth. He would eye up young men and weave romantic fictions around them. That was all.
"Youth, Laurie…" he'd say, "…is a fairy tale. Enjoy it, by all means. Try and live by it and reality will
soon have your guts for garters. Dear me, yes." I could almost hear him chuckling mischievously in my ear.

In my mind's eye, I saw the tombstone that I would have liked for Harry but for the vicar of St Michael's.
A lease on a rose tree in a Garden of Remembrance seemed poor recompense. I would have liked a
place to go, be with Harry, talk to him, try and understand. Several times I had tried to find the rose tree
and failed.

"Can I get you another drink?" Nick Carter's voice tugged at my thoughts like a child its mother's sleeve.

"A pint of bitter please," then, "Do you mind if we sit down?" Without waiting for a reply, I made my way
to a vacant table in the corner, suddenly anxious to take the weight off my feet. I also needed to get away
from the crowded bar. I hated crowds. Harry, I recalled, loved them. Yet he had been content enough to
spend most of his spare time with me, just the two of us. Or, had he? How could I be sure? Nothing
was clear any more. I might as well have been groping my way through a fog.

Carter arrived with the drinks, sat down and apologized for a second time for the general attitude of our
colleagues. "They don't understand," he muttered.

"Do you? Somehow, I doubt it." I took a long swig.

"I know what it's like to lose someone you love, yes." His voice was hoarse, his face and hair on fire.
He had the look of a Guy Fawkes effigy as the bonfire takes hold. "My girlfriend, Chris, died two years ago.
Cancer. She was beautiful, full of life. At the end, she was paralysed. Her face swelled up like a huge
marrow, the features little more than pin-pricks." His face contorted with pain. "I kept asking myself…
why us, why me? I never did figure out an answer that made any sense."

"I know the feeling," I was moved to say, and watched with mixed emotions as he drank sparkling
mineral water with short, agitated gulps. His directness surprised me more than his bitterness.
The latter, I could understand only too well. I found it hard to talk about Harry. Perhaps, I reflected dryly,
because there was no one to listen. Apart from the widow Finn, that is. She did her best, bless her,
but she preferred to talk about her late husband. Oh, I listened, some of the time anyway. It was the
least I could do. I got to know Michael Finn quite well. All the while, though, Harry would flit in and
out of my inner vision like a tiny bird among autumn leaves in a solitary tree.

It was much the same now as I listened to Nick Carter reminisce about his girlfriend, Chris. It was her
birthday. She would have been twenty-five. Would I like to go for a meal, his treat? He did not want to
spend the evening with friends—or alone. I accepted the invitation, thinking how lucky he was to have
a choice.

It was not a bad evening. The meal was good, the wine pleasant. Nick did most of the talking—
about himself chiefly, sometimes about his family. Somewhere along the line, Chris faded out of
the picture. Harry, too, slipped away. Nick drove me home in a handsome Porsche. We parked
outside my house and I asked him in for a coffee. He refused, politely enough but a shade too
quickly. "You're right to be wary," I mocked, "It's not as if I don't have something of a reputation, after all."

For a moment, he tensed and I thought he would get angry. Instead he burst out laughing. "Okay,
you're on." It was after midnight when he left. At the front door, he smiled shyly and said, "I've enjoyed
this evening Laurence, thanks."

"We must do it again sometime," I murmured vaguely.

"I'd like that." He smiled and held out a hand. I shook it. His grip was firm, the warmth of his palm
against mine a trifle disconcerting. It was not that I fancied Nick Carter. Quite simply, I was lonely.
He must have caught my change of mood. At any rate, he unclasped his hand, took the steps two
at a time and was driving off before I had even closed the front door.

Nick was not at work the next day and I learned he had taken a fortnight's leave. Irrationally, I felt
both annoyed and hurt that he hadn't mentioned it. When he returned, bronzed and relaxed, he barely
acknowledged me. That same evening, at the Flying Horse, he apologized for not sending me a
postcard. "I forgot your address," he muttered, plainly embarrassed. I suspected this awkwardness
owed more to his continuing collusion with our dear colleagues to make my life hell than any memory
lapse. When I put this to him, he had the grace to blush.

"You know how it is, Laurence."

"I should do, I'm the fall guy!" I retorted.

"It's better this way."

"Better for you, you mean. It's okay, I understand. We can't have the office grapevine putting it about
that you like queers, can we? I dare say they'd have us paired off in no time. It wouldn't exactly improve
your chances of a partnership, would it? Not to mention your standing among the homophobic classes."
I turned my back on him, caught Mo's eye and chatted across the bar to her about nothing in particular.
Nick Carter continued to hover at my elbow but made no attempt to gatecrash our conversation, such
as it was.

As soon as Mo moved down the bar to serve another customer, Nick offered to buy me a beer. I said
no, rudely. Then I went and grabbed the only empty chair at a crowded table. As if on cue, everyone
got up and left minutes afterwards. Nick came and sat opposite me. We glowered at each other, neither
trusting ourselves to speak. I could not disguise my contempt. He, for his part, looked tired and miserable.
In his favour, he did not make things worse between us by making excuses. "I thought we were friends,"
I said at last, when I could bear the deafening silence no longer.

"We are!" he protested, "Aren't we?" he added on a more cautious note.

I took my time. "Look, Nick, we're in the twenty-first century now. The twenty-first century, for crying
out loud. They don't burn witches any more and queers have equal rights with other animals. So what's
your problem?"

He neatly sidestepped the question. "How do you handle the bullshit they give you every day?"

I shrugged. "Just because it's on the menu doesn't mean you have to eat it."

He laughed. So did I. It helped. "That's a sound philosophy," he smiled, "but philosophy isn't everything."

"It beats bullshit," I countered.

More laughter.

"For what it's worth, I'm ashamed of myself."

"It's worth sod all," I said angrily, "What does it matter what other people think? There's a basic principle
of humanity at stake here."

"Don't be naïve, Laurence, it doesn't suit you. You know damn well it matters. Bollocks to equal rights.
It may get you halfway up the ladder if you're lucky, maybe even nearly to the top. But nearly isn't good
enough and you know it." It was his turn to be sharp, almost aggressive. "I'm going places, Laurence,
and I'll be damned if I'll chance my arm for a bloody principle. As for humanity, I agree it's pretty basic."
He made a dry, rasping noise that might have passed for a chuckle if it hadn't sounded much as I'd
expect to hear from a rattlesnake.

"So why are you condescending to drink with me? It's very public, isn't it? Like the restaurant we went to,
that was pretty public too. What if someone from the office saw us? What if the Chairman of the whole
damn House of Cards walked in with his good lady?"

"No one at Butler & Hawthorne would be seen dead in a dump like this. As for the restaurant, it was
nice but average. Would you say the people we work with are nice or average?"

"It's still a risk," I persisted.

"A calculated one," he agreed, "the kind I'm best at."

"But…"

"But, nothing. Besides, I'm a devious bastard. You've seen the way I operate. If the worst happened,
I'd find a way to come up smelling of roses." He flung me a crooked smile that gave him an air of
boyish mischief. For an instant, I was reminded of Harry. How deceptive, appearances, I thought.
Even so, I relaxed and could not help smiling back.

Nick Carter and I began to see a lot of each other. One night we went into London to see the final
part of Lord Of The Rings in the West End. Nick went to get some cigarettes while I queued for tickets.
As he was returning, I saw him waylaid by a colleague, Don, who stepped out of the queue in front of me.
Two women joined them. I recognized Don's wife but not the other, a tall blonde. I watched Nick shake
hands with both women. All four were laughing a lot. They dived back into the queue as it began shuffling
forwards again. Nick, too. I waited until I saw them disappear into the cinema. Suddenly, it was my turn
at the ticket office window. I stared at the woman blankly. She glared impatiently. I fled and made for the
nearest pub.

The next evening, I avoided the Flying Horse and went straight home after work. It was late when the
doorbell rang and I heard Nick's voice at the entry-phone. We hadn't spoken all day. "Go away," I said
and replaced the receiver. The bell rang again. I tried to ignore the shrill ring but this time he kept a
finger on it. Wearily, I lifted the receiver…

He was only faintly apologetic. "You know the score, Laurence. What else could I do? Now, can I
come up or do I have to stay here all night?"

A few minutes later found us perched embarrassedly on the edge of armchairs, eyeing each other
with much the same wary speculation as lovers after a quarrel.

"Who was the blonde?" I asked. As if I cared.

"Her name's Clara. She's fun."

"Give you a good time, did she?"

"As a matter of fact, yes."

"I bet!" I was angry. He reddened and looked increasingly uncomfortable. I wished he'd get up and leave.
Instead, he asked for a brandy. I did not stop to ask myself why I was relieved but went to the cabinet
and poured two large ones. We sipped and said nothing for several minutes.

"I lied to you, Laurence," he blurted suddenly, his eyes fixed on a floral pattern in the carpet. What I told
you about Chris…it wasn't quite like that."

"Oh?" I waited.

"Most of it was true…about the cancer and everything. We'd been living together for nearly a year
before…" He paused and looked up at me. I saw that he was crying. "It was so hard, Laurence."

"You must have loved her very much," I said gently.

He nodded, fumbled for a handkerchief, wiped his eyes and blew his nose. "It hurts, Laurence," he sobbed
quietly.

"I know." I wanted to put an arm around him and comfort him but would not risk a rebuff.

Nick sat there, toying with the handkerchief, for ages. I refilled our glasses. Finally, he took a deep breath.
"Chris wasn't my girlfriend," he said in a strong, clear voice, "He was my boyfriend." He pocketed the
handkerchief and reverted to studying the carpet.

"You're gay?" I was incredulous.

He nodded, appeared to reach a decision and looked me directly in the eye. "Yes, I'm gay. But that's
my business and if I want to stay in the damn closet, that's my business, too. You can appreciate that,
surely? You weren't exactly forthcoming about being in a gay relationship yourself until…" he finished lamely.

I winced. "So why tell me now?" I was curious.

Nick licked his lips nervously, then, "I had to tell someone." He took out the handkerchief again and blew
his nose noisily. "I can trust you. Two of a kind and all that."

"Huh!" was the only comment I trusted myself to make.

"They say it's no big deal these days, but it is. I couldn't handle what those creeps at the office put you
through day after day. And my family would go ballistic, I just know they would."

"But…?"

He shrugged. "I can't help the way I am, can I? I can live with that. I just don't see why I should let it
screw up everything else for me. I'm no martyr, Laurence."

"Meaning?" I bristled.

"Day after day, they crucify you and you…"

"I what?" I got up and all but leapt at him placing my hands on both arms of the chair, the heat of his
breath on my face. "Let them? Do you think I enjoy it?"

"You could quit," he mumbled.

"Why should I?" I was livid. "Besides, where would I go? At forty something, you're either a success
or an also-ran."

"Only because you're gay."

"Get real, Nick. Maybe it doesn't always help. But at the end of the day it's only an excuse. The truth is,
I don't have what it takes to stay ahead in the rat race. And shall I tell you something else? I'm glad."

"The rats wouldn't let you win anyway."

"Possibly. But a rat is a rat. Gay or straight, it makes no difference. If you have success written all
over you, any fart on the make will be only too happy to give you a blow job."

"You're so naïve."

"So you keep telling me."

Tears streamed down his face and his lips quivered but he fell quiet and we stared into each other's
faces as if expecting to find answers to questions we hadn't even asked of ourselves, let alone each
other. I sighed, rose and returned to my glass. He jumped up like an animal freed from a trap and
bolted for the door.

"You don't have to leave, Nick." He paused in mid-stride and swung round. I honestly thought he was
about to tell me to go to hell and braced myself.

"You mean I can stay?"

"It's up to you."

"No, Laurence, it's up to you. If I stay, I stay the night."

I stared, nonplussed. "You mean…"

"You know perfectly well what I mean," hesitating only a fraction, "I want to sleep with you. So how
about it? We're both lonely. And don't you dare say you're not because we both know better. I'm sick
of being alone and I think you are, too."

"Yes, but…"

"No buts. No strings. No complications."

"Just…sex?"

"Why not? It beats Prozac any day." He relaxed slightly, even managed a wry grin in spite of a tension
between us that could only be described as electric.

"And what about love?" I demanded.

"Oh, that!" he scoffed, "I don't plan to make that mistake again."

"Chris was a mistake?"

"Chris is dead. So is Harry. I just need to be with someone, Laurence, so do you."

"Just like that?"

"No, like this." His embrace was firm and resolute. Although demanding, his kiss was surprisingly
warm. I had always thought Nick had a hard mouth but the lips pressed against mine were gentle,
his tongue moist and pleading as it forced an entry. Our moaning breaths sounded like a frenzied
jazz beat in my ears.

Head and heart yelling "No!" in unison, my body gladly succumbed.

I paused on the stairs, lit only by the orange glow of a street lamp that belonged to an outside world
we had left behind. Nick darted ahead, slipping off his jacket as he did so. The yellow of his shirt
was like a burst of flame in the gloom. I hesitated at my bedroom door. Again, Nick seized the
initiative. He pushed it open and went inside. The curtains were wide open. A full moon and lots
of stars blinked conspiratorially at us. I stayed by the door, willing my legs to move but they refused.

Nick removed his tie, draped it over a chair and began unbuttoning his shirt. I pushed the door
shut without shifting my position. Nick took off his shirt. His smooth, muscular chest heaved in
the moonlight. He dropped his trousers and clambered out of them. It struck me as faintly absurd
that he was not wearing underpants. I found my feet and went to him. Almost reverently, I laid both
hands on his bare shoulders. He started to undress me and I was happy enough to let him.

We regarded each other's nakedness in total silence for a while, then, "Not bad for an old man of
forty something," he said with a chuckle that made my spine tingle.

"You're not so bad yourself," I commented dryly. We both laughed. The sound refreshed us, gave us
its blessing. We embraced. We did not kiss but clung to each other, cheek to cheek, revelling in
mutual comfort. Slowly, we sank to the bed. Over Nick's shoulder, I swear the moon winked at me
as we pulled the duvet over us and enjoyed a cuddle.

"I could fall in love with you," I murmured, my mouth close to his.

"Don't," warned Nick Carter a split second before he kissed me, plunging us both into an oasis of passion.

(To be continued...-)
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