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were his last link to that mystical summer in Padstow.
    The door to the industrial unit opened and the booted feet of another man appeared. Dex heard the murmur of voices as he bantered with Braden, but he didn’t catch all the words. The English way of speaking Shelta went over his head. Besides, what did it matter? Most times, it was better not to know what he was walking into.
    Mikey flicked his cheek. Dex raised his eyes and saw Braden was gone, leaving him alone with Mikey and another heavyset man.
    “We’ll wait outside for the boy,” Mikey said. “Do what you like with him, but not his face. We make a lot of money from this pretty boy. Don’t want him back as damaged goods.”
    The other man nodded his agreement, and Mikey disappeared into the night. The man took Dex’s arm and pushed him toward the open door. “Come on, then, lad. Time to service the gorjers.”
    He directed Dex into the cold, drafty building and along a utilitarian corridor until they came to a locked metal door. Behind the door was a staircase that led down to some kind of cellar. Dex tensed, but his guide shoved him forward.
    “Down.”
    Dex felt his way down the steps. He’d lost the will to be afraid years ago, but as he walked blind into a situation he knew at best would be unpleasant, his long-dormant nerves prickled to life.
    The stairs seemed to go on forever, but eventually, he walked right into another solid metal door. His guide reached around him and pushed it open, shoving him forward into a warm, dim room cloaked in cigar smoke.
    “Fresh meat,” the man said. “We’ve got him all night. Who wants him first?”
    Dex stared at the group of men in muted horror. He counted eight of them in total, all of varying age. The youngest was in his thirties, the oldest closer to seventy. Some of them barely glanced his way, too engrossed in the card game and whiskey set out on the table of a room that appeared to be an office, albeit with a private bar, but a few did look up, and the naked appetite in their eyes turned his stomach.
    Really? A fucking orgy? It wouldn’t be the first time.
    One of the men stood, came over, and tipped Dex’s head back with two fingers under his chin. “Looks better than the last one Braden sent. Lift your arms up, boy.”
    Dex obeyed, and suppressed a shiver as the man pulled his grubby sweatshirt over his head, leaving the top half of him bare. The man turned him from side to side, flicking the dark bruise formed by Tarry’s fists.
    Dex flinched, he couldn’t help it. The man laughed and flicked him again, harder this time. “Think we might have a screamer here. Who brought a gag?”
    Without warning, he yanked Dex’s arms behind his back and bound them together before Dex could resist. Then he pulled a length of rope from his jacket pocket and reached for Dex’s head.
    Stupidly, Dex resisted and jerked away.
    Irritation colored his assailant’s features. “Come ’ere, boy.”
    Dex clenched his fists. “Fuck off.”
    The man narrowed his eyes. Dex braced himself for the inevitable blow, wondering if the man would keep to the agreement and spare his face. Not that he cared. What difference did it make to him?
    The punch never came. Instead, softer hands grasped his face and turned his head, and he found himself staring into the eyes of one of the younger men in the room. Clean-shaven, with scruffy, sandy brown hair, he wasn’t bad-looking for a gorjer.
    “Let me have a look at him before you fuck him up,” the new man said.
    “Squeamish, George?”
    “No,” George replied. “I just don’t share your fetish for blood. Let me have him first, then you can do what you want.”
    The first man grunted and ambled back to the card game. George grasped Dex’s arm and towed him from the room and back into the corridor. Once out of sight of the other men, he untied his hands.
    “Don’t even think of giving me lip. One move, and I’ll throw you to the wolves.”
    That fate seemed inevitable,