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head in Peyton's lap while Peyton sang him a disjointed sort of lullaby, though they both knew he would not sleep, and gradually the screaming faded away.
    â€œOh Peyt,” he said. “Oh Peyt. I don't know if I can take it."
    Peyton nodded. “It's too much, isn't it? I think this should be our last tour."
    â€œYou mean ...?” Seth could not articulate what he thought Peyton might mean.
    â€œI don't mean break up the band, if that's what you thought. But why keep going on these tours? Harold wants us to, but we don't need the money, and we can't hear ourselves onstage anyway. I thought we could sort of retire from touring, stay together in the studio, make records. We don't need to do this any more."
    As the truth of what Peyton was saying struck him, Seth felt both incredibly relieved and utterly spent. He buried his face in the pillows. When he could speak again, he said, “That's just what I want to do. Thanks, Peyt."
    â€œNow there's something I don't hear often enough from you."
    â€œHarold won't like it, though."
    â€œHarold's not the boss any more."
    Harold's no t lots of things any more , Seth thought. But he could not follow the thought to its logical conclusion. Peyton's presence beside him was one friendly and comforting thing in a world that had nearly come apart at the seams tonight. He groped for Peyton's hand, enfolded Peyton's callused fingers in his own, and actually managed to drift into some sort of sleep. His dreams were unnaturally colorful and too disturbing to remember, but when he woke, his friend was still beside him, their hands still intertwined.

vii

    Peyton got the news from Dennis late one night. Harold had picked up the wrong bit of rough trade, apparently, at the beginning of a weekend when no one expected to hear from him for at least forty-eight hours. He'd been found in his flat by his cleaning woman, beaten, broken, and beginning to rot. The flat had been stripped of valuables; whatever hadn't been stolen was smashed. Peyton's first thought was of Seth. “Has anyone told him yet?” he asked.
    â€œI don't know. I haven't talked to him. You think he's tripping?"
    â€œHe's always tripping,” Peyton said glumly, and hung up the phone. He put his jacket back on and drove to Seth's house. On the way he thought only vaguely of Harold. He'd somehow assumed something like this would happen to Harold one day. He thought of how Harold had wanted them, wanted especially Seth so much, had had Seth but not in any way that mattered. So he'd filled that void with unpredictable trash that had eventually, inevitably killed him.
    He let himself into Seth's house with the key he had. They'd always had keys to each other's places, ever since their school days, and never questioned the fact. This new place in Knightsbridge was huge, the floor plan convoluted, and even though he had been there several times he had to wander a bit before he found the main bedroom. If Seth knew that Harold had died, then Seth would be in bed. Seth's response to anything that exercised his emotions had always been to go to bed.
    He was there, of course, the long lean shape of him twisted beneath sweaty covers. He was awake, blinking slowly. Peyton sat on the edge of the bed. “Who called you?"
    â€œMark."
    That wasn't so bad; Mark was always rather diffident with Seth, and would have broken it to him gently. But there was no good way for Seth to have gotten this news. He'd be feeling so many things about it, and none of them in harmony with each other: blaming himself, not without some cause, though of course you couldn't really think of it that way, and maybe even relieved because the whole messy business of fucking Harold would be done with, and then blaming himself for this relief ... No, there was really no good side to it at all.

    * * * *

    Seth knew Peyton was sitting there analyzing Seth's emotional state, gauging his reaction to the news, maybe even wondering how soon