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all right, Paul? Am I saying the right thing to him?’
    â€˜Yes.’ He had heard how sullen he sounded and tried to sound less so as he said, ‘Yes. Thank you.’
    â€˜Don’t thank me! I have to lie! I have to lie to your son that you died! He asks me if I’m sad! How do you imagine that feels? And for God’s sake, don’t cry. I won’t have you crying over this. If you’d behaved with more backbone, if you’d stood up to them and hadn’t run away with that man –’ George broke off. ‘I’m sorry. Please don’t cry.’ Stepping closer to him he had put his hand on his back, saying intently, ‘Paul, pull yourself together, don’t make a show of yourself, not here.’
    His father had taken a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it into his hand. ‘Come now. There’s nothing to cry about. Bobby’s such a good boy, and so like you. Oh, Lord. I’m making things worse, aren’t I?’
    Yes, he had made things worse, so bad in fact that Paul had to go outside. Even there, on the dark street, he couldn’t cry openly. His throat had burned with the suppression of tears. George had followed him, but at least he was silent, awkward and angry still – Paul was certain of his anger – but silent. Until, at last, George had said, ‘I shouldn’t have said what I did. I know you didn’t run away … I’m truly sorry.’
    On the hotel bed, Paul pushed the heels of his hands hard into his eyes: no backbone; run away; his father’s words kept coming back to him, repeating in his head like a playground taunt.
    From his pocket he took out a photograph George had given him and traced his finger around Bobby’s face. ‘I took him to Evans’s , ’ his father had told him, ‘that studio on the High Street. Evans gave him that funny little toy dog to hold.’ Sitting on a child-sized wicker chair, Bobby clasped the dog to his chest and looked solemnly at the camera. Paul stared at him, trying to make out the resemblance George said was there; he couldn’t see it, try as he might.
    He got up and placed Bobby’s photograph in an envelope, sealed it and put it in a pocket in his suitcase. He went into the bathroom and washed his face in cold water, avoiding his reflection in the mirror above the sink. Going to the bedroom window he lifted the curtain aside and looked out on to the street; the pavements were shiny from the London drizzle, reflecting the hazy lamplight. He wondered, without much caring, if that boy Edmund would come.
    He let the curtain fall back and lay down on the bed again, the springs creaking a little. The boy’s weight would make them complain even more, quite a body he had, and tall; he had always preferred tall men: big, strong, handsome men – dark or blond but muscular, hairy, well hung. He liked it best if they hadn’t shaved for a little while so that their bristles scoured his skin. He liked it when they grasped his hair and forced his face down to their thick, impatient, greedy cocks; he liked it when they called him fucking little queer, dirty, cock-sucking little bastard. To be humiliated, to have his guts soft with lust and fear, his own cock so hard and crushed in a fist – that was what he wanted more than anything else. There was nothing he wanted more; nothing was more important, nothing. Nothing. Unbuttoning his flies, his hand grasped his flaccid cock. He closed his eyes and tears ran down his face.
    Margot, his wife, had cried and shouted, ‘Why did you marry me? Why, when you knew, you knew …’ She was sobbing, hardly able to get the words out. All at once she was flailing at him with her fists. ‘You’re filthy! You’ve made me filthy! Everyone knows! They all know how filthy dirty we are!’ He had tried to hold her, but she pulled away from him furiously. ‘I hate you. You’ll