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been thinking. If they'd chosen to look. He'd best be careful; down here, that kind of thing was likely to get him tarred and feathered or thrown in a ditch and left for dead. Devon wasn't exactly a gay clubber's paradise. Not that he'd ever been much into that scene. Or not as much as some.
    Cool it, Craig , he thought. Gay Rule Number Six: Don't chase away the totty before you've at least had dinner with it.
    “Come on,” he said, tearing his eyes from Paul. “We'd best make a move.”
    They arrived in his home village— old home village—at about 3 p.m. The last few miles had been the hardest. He'd stared out of the window of Paul's Vauxhall, the classical music a low murmur to the wilder mix in his thoughts, and watched the hills become more rolling, the grass richer and all-encompassing. Sometimes, he swore it, the countryside could be a web for those who didn't expect it. Only in the city had he been truly free. What would happen now?
    As Paul responded to the last of his directions, heading left up the hill to Andrea Trowbridge's house, the ache in Craig's stomach shaped itself into a fist and struck out.
    “Stop the car,” he panted, scrabbling for the door handle. "Stop it."
    Paul slammed on the brakes, skidding to a halt into the roadside gravel. The black Smart car that had been trailing them since Exeter hooted twice and veered around, sailing off like a wasp in search of a picnic.
    Pushing open the car door, Craig slid around, sat half in and half out of the seat, bent over and took several deep breaths. He thought he might be sick. He wasn't. The smells of winter grass and trees and the nearby river filled the car. After a while, he became aware of Paul's hand on his right shoulder. Lightly. As if poised to hold him back, should he suddenly decide to run, but giving him enough freedom to make that choice for himself. It felt as if his fingers had lain there for some time, but Craig hadn't noticed before.
    “You okay?” Paul asked at last.
    “Yeah. I thought.... Heck, I don't know what I thought. Whatever. I didn't know it would feel like this.”
    “Going back home is always difficult,” Paul said. And then, “If you like, we can drive back to London. I don't mind.”
    “No.” With a sigh, Craig twisted around to be inside the car again, though he left the door open, drinking in the air while he could. “No. I've come this far. Going back now would be stupid. I don't want you to think I'm taking the piss. At least, not any more than I already bloody have.”
    “I don't think that,” Paul said, shortly, but with his hand still resting on Craig's shoulder like a promise. “Believe me, I've known worse.”
    Craig smiled at him. “Thanks.”
    “You're welcome. Anyway, in all this, don't you think you've forgotten the one important fact?”
    “What's that then?”
    “You're not going back home entirely alone. You're going back with me. I don't know you very well—not yet anyway—but I hope it'll make a difference.”
    It did. Andrea's house was set back from the road. Craig got Paul to take the long way around the village outskirts to it so they didn't have to drive past where he used to live. He and his father. Paul didn't seem to notice anything. Or didn't remark on it anyway. At last they parked in Andrea's driveway behind an old Metro. It didn't look familiar, but of course in the seven years since he'd been here everything would have moved on.
    The house they were looking at was more a cottage than a house, though plainer than the tourist trade preferred. A simple two up, two down in Devon stone, with a slated roof. It had once been part of his father's farm but he'd sold the land on to Andrea's husband when Craig was still at primary school. The Trowbridges had both taken early retirement. They'd moved in during the summer but, from memory, Mr. Trowbridge had died a year or two later and then she'd stayed on. Thinking about it, Andrea must be nearly into her seventies by now.
    “It's