Kissing the Dragon - 27. Home Truths

Sometime next morning, I wake sleep fuddled with a thick head and cotton wool mouth, to a soft but insistent knocking at the bedroom door. A shaft of sunlight from the bay window scarcely illuminates the room, an open slice in the thick curtains. My eyes focus blearily and painfully on the ornately stucco’d parchment ceiling and I wonder for an instant where on earth I am. A baking hot body presses along the right side of mine, the head heavy and pinning down my shoulder. In addition, and not unpleasantly, this person’s upper thigh rests on mine and an erection presses into my leg. Worst of all, the sleeping man’s head has reduced the blood flow in my right arm which is numb and tingling. I struggle to raise my head but before I have a chance to sit up, the bedroom door swings opens and someone marches into the room.

“Colin? Are you awake? It’s almost nine,“ comes Vaughan’s voice, clearly flustered. His gaze probes the room, to the empty bed next to mine, until he locks onto me. With that he opens the door wide letting more light into the room and walks over.

“Vaughan,“ I croak, still not fully awake, trying to sit up. “What do you—?”

“Shit,” he says, stumbling to a halt. He finally notices the head resting on my shoulder. “Sorry. I—I thought you said he was just a friend. I’ll come back later. When you’re less—when you’re free.”

Before I have a chance to respond, he is gone, closing the door behind him. For a second, I wonder if I should go after him, but realise that other bodily needs are more urgent and compelling right at this moment. When I return from the bathroom with a warm bathrobe around me, Kit is sitting up in bed, his blond thatch ruffled almost mohican style.

“Morning sleepyhead,” I say, hoping to lighten the mood.

“Morning,” he responds, but I am unable to fathom his humour.

“Listen, about last night. Are we good?”

“Sure, we’re good.”

“Really?” I ask, waiting for him to meet my gaze. Eventually he does and his sleepy grin is frankly adorable.

“Like I said, Cole. We’re good. Now give me a minute to freshen up,” he says, clambering out of bed and standing proud in his tee and boxers. After massaging the back of his neck a second, he strides across the room to the window and hauls open the huge curtains, letting sunlight flood the room. Standing there, illuminated like a Greek heroic statue, he peers down at the grounds below. “Then let’s go hunt down some breakfast. I’m ravenous.”

Which is exactly what we do. When we run into another couple in the corridor ambling back to their room, we are informed that breakfast is outside on the open balcony overlooking the back of the house. Dazzling sunlight greets us warming what would otherwise be a chill morning air—although I am glad I squeezed into a warm pullover and wore shades. A handful of guests are scattered at round tables including Derek, sitting alone and sporting stylish mirrored sunglasses, although his are more a style statement than hangover management. Without hesitation, I lead the way over to him. Two other spaces around the six seater table appear to be taken.

“Morning chaps. Did you sleep at all?” he says, making sure Kit is looking elsewhere before sliding his glasses down his nose and winking at me.

“Once we’d both managed to thaw out, yes,” I reply, giving Derek my best admonishing look.

“Place is a veritable ice palace in winter. That’s why Hugh and I claim the smallest of bedrooms. Much easier to heat. Breakfast is buffet style. Go in through the French doors there and the table of hot and cold food is at the end. I have a pot of Earl Grey here. Coffee machine’s inside, if that’s your thing.”

Kit vouches for coffee and offers to fetch food for us both—even though all I can really face is tea—and I imagine the gesture is a way to politely clear space for Derek and I to natter. Already he is being accommodating. After he goes, my old friend pours me a lifesaving cup but before we have the chance to speak, the two other guests return to their seats carrying plates of food. Vaughan and Oscar. Both sport matching bathrobes over their clothes, probably to provide a little extra insulation against the cold. Vaughan’s glower on seeing me is as dark as the black pudding on his plate. Tough luck. I am not about to let Vaughan’s mood unbalance me.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” I say brightly, as they settle into their seats and before anyone else speaks. From the corner of my eye, I notice Derek peer over at me. “Did you sleep well last night?”

Poor Oscar is oblivious to the subliminal exchange. At first he seems a little awkward, waiting for Vaughan to respond, but then, when nothing comes and, as if realising there is nothing about my behaviour to concern him, he pipes up.

“Not too bad,” he says, shrugging one shoulder. “Even without jet lag, I always find it difficult sleeping the first night in a strange bed."

“Really? We slept like bunnies. Eventually. But then I’ve never had a problem with strange beds,” I say, and next to me Derek splutters on his orange juice.

“Was your room as arctic as ours?”

“At first. But, you know, you just have to find inventive ways to keep yourselves warm. Where have they put you?”

This time I notice Derek turn to glare at me.

“West wing, ground floor. You?”

“Upstairs. Just as well. Chris likes to be on top,” I say, and manage not to flinch when, beneath the table, Derek taps my ankle.

“Lucky you,” says Oscar. “You have a good view?”

“Oh, the very best. Especially first thing in the morning,” I answer, ignoring Vaughan’s molten glare. "So I understand you boys had some down time. I got the impression you were there for the long haul."

"So did we. It was all going well until our client got cold feet and pulled the plug. So bloody annoying when you think you know people and then suddenly they do things completely out of character."

“Isn’t that the truth?” I say, looking pointedly at Vaughan.

"Okay, enough Colin,” says Vaughan loudly, thumping his fork down on the table and struggling up from his chair. “Oscar, excuse us one moment. Colin and I need to talk.”

“I haven’t finished my tea yet,” I answer, somewhat pettily.

Without answering, he stands there glaring at me. Poor Oscar appears confused and when I look to Derek he merely shrugs. I decide Vaughan is right. Now is the time to talk. He leads me back into the warm house, to the end of the upstairs corridor. When he stops and confronts me, he also—somewhat dramatically—unties the robe and thrusts his hands beneath, onto his hips. In doing so, he reveals a light blue polo shirt with a tell-tale logo on the breast pocket.

“Nice polo shirt,” I say, the words out before I can stop them. “I don’t recognise that designer? Where did you get it?”

Talk about a slap in the face. The OL Club insignia is all too familiar. The letter O with the L through the middle and placed halfway down, almost looking like the letter Q. Only now does it register that I have seen this shirt a long time ago. I am almost positive Vaughan used to wear something similar when we lived together. Of course, nothing would have signified back then. If he wanted to get me on a even keel, he has blown it now.

“Can’t remember,” he says, peering down. “Somewhere in Singapore, I think.”

“You think?” I say, sudden anger rising.

“Yes,” he says, now peering up and grimacing at me. “What the hell does it matter where I got the damn thing?”

Once again, I stare at him, knowing all the things I want to say—and all the things I am not allowed to.

“If you’d given me a second to explain last night, I would have told you that Oscar and I are not strictly together. I know it might look that way and, if I’m going to be completely honest, Oscar would like us to be. But I meant it back in June when I said we should take a break. So that both of us could try to work out exactly what we want.”

“You bailed on me, Vaughan.”

“I did not bail, Colin. Asia is my one opportunity to make partnership. If all the promises I’ve been made are anything to go by, I’ll be an equity partner by May. So no, I didn’t bail on you. But I certainly didn’t belong there, the place never felt like my home. You had me in that house to play a part. Like a character in a play. At least, that’s how it felt.”

“That is singularly unfair.”

“Maybe. But it’s the truth.“

I let that go. If we are going to play rough, I need to speak a few of my own truths.

“I was ready to propose to you. Before you left.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“Why were you going to propose to me?”

“Because I loved you?”

“Bullshit, Colin. Granted you were fond of me. The same way I was fond of you. Still am, if the truth be known. But love? No way. If you were going to propose to me it’s because you wanted to keep me by your side. Because you could sense what we had slipping away, and you wanted to keep things as they were.”

Admittedly, I had sensed us drifting apart. But was that really why I had decided to make our connection more concrete? Maybe he has a point.

“Lots of people find change difficult, Colin. The issue is that you absolutely despise it. For you, keeping the status quo has become a daily crusade. You never want to change anything, including me—or at least what I stood for. Same house and decor, same routines, same bloody wine. When the two rose bushes in the front garden died, we went to six different garden centres. Six. Why? Because you had to replace them with exactly the same variety, down to the size and colour. If I ever mentioned redecorating and renovating the house you'd get angry and defensive. That bloody ridiculous glass staircase, for example, which is an accident waiting to happen. Or the conservatory dining room that you never use. I only mentioned in passing that it would be good to transform the space into a sun room—and you hit the bloody roof.”

“I thought you liked the decor?”

“Some of it. I love the bedrooms and bathrooms. But you can’t keep them like that forever. It isn’t healthy. Do you know what I really hoped for?”

“Clearly not,” I say, the comment about bedrooms not lost on me.

“That after your uncle died, you would sell the place. Make a fresh start.”

“Uncle Dom designed that house. I feel a duty—“

“He’s dead, Colin. Any duty, however misplaced, ended with his death. He doesn’t care what happens to that house any more. It’s yours now. Let it go.”

“I can’t,” I shout, his words hitting home, tears welling in my eyes.

“I know,” he says quietly, his sympathy undoing me. “Because in your heart you don't really own the place. You're simply the caretaker."

While I blink at him, dazed and miserable, trying to process his words, Wagner bursts forth from the phone in my pocket. With blurred vision, I peer at the name Kimberley on the display. She would never ring me unless it was something urgent.

“I need to take this.”

When he nods briefly, I turn away from him and head back towards the breakfast room.

“Hello Kim,” I say, sullenly. “What’s up?”

“Colin, darling,” she replies, before faltering. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” I say, taking a deep breath. “What can I do for you?”

“Look, I’m sorry to disturb. I know you’re at the funeral and all.”

“Not until tomorrow. Fire away.”

“It’s about Martin. He’s gone AWOL. Didn’t turn up for school this morning and now nobody can find him. So unlike him. I wondered if you had another number for him. Other than his home or mobile?”

“Afraid not. Maybe he stopped over at his mother’s nursing home—“

“He didn’t. We already checked. Hasn’t been there this past weekend.”

“And he’s not answering his mobile?”

“Straight to voicemail.”

Strange. Martin is probably the most careful and conscientious man I know. Has never missed a day of school except for planned leave.

“Kim. Let me call my lodger. Maybe Martin left a message on my house phone.”

“You are a sweetie. So how’s it going with Chris the American Iceman? He still playing it cool? Or have you given up trying, like me?”

Her voice is like a warm hug. Once everything is settled, I am going to enjoy falling back into line with the teachers of Croxburgh and especially Kimberley. Is Buenos Aires really such a good idea?

“We’ve come to an understanding. And after the surprise arrival of Vaughan last night—“

Vaughan? Your ex?”

“One and only.”

“No! Colin, you poor thing. Spill.”

“Not much to tell really. But let’s just say I’m hugely grateful to have the American here for moral support. He’s been brilliant. Vaughan and I were having words when you phoned.”

We talk on a little longer until Kim signs off. Stood in the middle of the room, with scents of bacon, toast and pastries filling the air, I decide to call Billy while Kim’s plea is still fresh in my memory. Already after ten o’clock, I call his mobile feeling sure he will be at the shop.

“Dildo Deliveries. How may we serve you?”

“Very cute, Billy.”

“Mother. How’s country life treating you? Shot any pheasants yet?”

“Not quite. Are you at work?”

“Day off today. I’m on the weekend roster. So I’m at home with your furry son. Are you checking up on me?”

“No, of course not. But listen, has Martin telephoned home at all? He seems to have disappeared off the planet.”

“Not called, no. At least not that I know of. But he popped by to see you yesterday afternoon. Told him you were hobnobbing in the country with the gentry folk. Made him a cup of tea. Well, he made it, cause I’m still not sure how that water boiling thing works. Had a chat and he was sorry to miss you. Asked to print something off using your computer—apparently his own printer is knackered—and then went. Why? What’s happened?”

“He hasn’t shown up for school today.”

“Truant teacher, huh? I like him more and more.”

“Except it’s completely out of character. Are there any messages on the answer machine?”

“How can I tell?”

“The red light will be blinking.”

“Oh, then yes.”

“Can you play them for me?”

“And how do I do that?”

For someone whose bedroom resembles a mini recording studio, who shops for everything online using his mobile phone, Billy has a blind spot where everyday domestic appliances are concerned.

“Go to the box and press the button marked play.”

I listen as he moves across the room and hear him muttering the word ‘play’ repeatedly probably trying to locate the correct button. When I turn around and try to see Vaughan, I notice him deep in conversation with Hugh, their heads bowed in together. As I am looking on, both of them turn to stare at me. I raise a hand in greeting to Hugh, who grins and nods back. On hearing a beep and a clunk down the phone I assume Billy has managed to work my answering machine. And then oddly enough, Vaughan’s voice comes down the phone. I hear Billy’s muttered curse when he hears Vaughan telling me he will be coming to the dinner for Denny.

“Shit,” he says, his voice an apology. “Did you hear any of that?”

“Don’t worry. He arrived last night. And we’ve already had words.”

In the background I hear the next message, a male reporter from the free local rag. Things are definitely dropping off if that’s all there is. When I hear the long beep at the end, I know there are no more messages.

“Okay, thanks Billy. If Martin does call, can you ask him to contact me.”

“Would be my pleasure. Culater,” he says, ending the call.

Culater. See you later. More Billy speak, I grin to myself, as I pop my phone away. Although I am slightly concerned about Martin, I feel sure he is fine and has a perfectly good explanation for being absent. Just the fact that the teachers are rallying around with concern is heartwarming. I head back to the corridor where Vaughan and Hugh are still talking.

“Domestic drama. Sorry for that. Are we done, Vaughan?”

“I don’t know Colin. Are we?”

“I’ll leave the two of you to talk,” says Hugh, sensing the tension between us and heading out to the balcony. I watch his retreating back and wait until he is gone before I have my say, grateful to have had the distraction of Kimberley’s call to get my feelings in check.

“You’re right about me, Vaughan. I am obsessive. Like to have things in their place. I’m aware that people find that frustrating and I am trying to improve. But you of all people know that until I came to live with Uncle Dom in my early teens, I had little in the way of stability growing up. So whenever I manage to find some, I grab hold and cling tight for myself and those around me. And whatever you believe, you should know that I did love you. And I will be forever grateful for your help in dealing with my uncle’s illness. You stuck by me when others might have jumped ship. I don’t want to lose you, Vaughan, but neither do I want to stop you from the chance of being happy.”

Tears have welled up in Vaughan’s eyes and I steel myself so that I do not follow suit. Before I can stop him, he pulls me into a fierce hug. Unlike our previous times together, however, this is the embrace of a friend rather than a lover.

“Why did we never have this honest kind of conversation before?” he asks, releasing me.

“Because I was never ready. Maybe this means I’m growing,” I admit. “The important thing is Oscar seems like a nice person. Treat him well, and I hope you’ll both be happy.”

“If only you knew what an incredible person you are—“

“Please. No runner-up speech, Vaughan.”

I volunteer to go back while he dries his eyes. Back at the breakfast table, Nichole Schwartz has joined the party and is seated next to Kit, the two of them laughing together at some shared story. For some reason I feel a pang of envy, wondering if he is flirting with her. As I take my seat, he looks quizzically at me and I gently shake my head to let him know everything is fine. A few minutes later Vaughan returns and I smile to myself as he and Oscar go through the same routine. A plate of pastries and fresh fruit sit in the middle of the table, but I still have no appetite. My mood is more subdued and I am happy to let conversations flow around me.

“You okay, old man?” murmurs Derek, leaning in.

“All good,” I respond, feeling a weight has lifted.

“Ladies and gents,” comes Hugh’s distinctive voice, as he stands behind Derek’s chair with a proprietary hand on each of Derek’s shoulders. “We’re leaving you to your own devices today. Nothing’s been planned until tonight’s dinner. You’ll have the run of the house and buffet lunch will be available in this room from midday until two. I know some of you have flown in from afar so you may want to take it easy and rest up. But I wondered if anyone would like a tour of the grounds after breakfast. Normally my father covets this task—he knows the place a lot better than me—but he’s tied up with work this morning. So if anyone’s interested, I’d be happy to provide the abridged tour.”

Nine of us take Hugh up on his offer including Kit and Derek. Nichole Schwartz, who tells us she has done the tour dozens of times and encourages us to join, has urgent work for Winterbourne senior and heads off towards what I assume to be the office on the ground floor. Vaughan and Oscar cry off too, citing jet lag and a sleepless night. Or maybe something else.

When I fall into step quietly beside Kit, neither of having much to say to one another, Hugh leads the way across the outside courtyard. Considering he claims to be less informed than his father, his knowledge of the estate is impressive. He leads us at a leisurely pace around the swimming pool down the stone steps into the grounds while explaining that the unusual statues dotted around are all designed by the recipients of a disabled artists charity sponsored by Wintercorp.

“Six acres of lawns and gardens, including the celebrated privet maze, surround the main house. Cattle grids and a ha-ha at both the front and rear separate the property from a hundred and fifty acres of farmland.”

“What the heck’s a ha-ha?” asks Kit.

“It’s a kind of ditch that has a wall on the inner side below ground level,” I explain, more knowledge courtesy of my late uncle. “An architectural feature designed to provide a border, without spoiling the view.”

As we continue on towards the natural boundary of the woods, Hugh points out the red brick stable block to the west, and Portmanton Village beyond. In the distance and poking out above the woods, is the dark slate roof and brick chimney belonging to the hunting lodge. A neighbouring farm sprawls out to the east of the property. Almost three hours later Hugh leads us in a full semicircle back towards the main house, where, clearly pleased with the response, he offers to continue the tour inside the house after lunch. On the gravel path leading towards the rear carpark, Derek catches up with us.

“Chris, do you mind if I steal Colin away? Get him to give me a hand pick up some groceries from Portmanton Village and fetch something for Hugh from work while he’s playing tour guide? And, of course, give me a chance to grab a bit more time with my old mate?”

“Sure,” says Kit, with a shrug. “No problem. I really wanted to hear more about the house.”

“Groceries?” I ask Derek, stunned. “I’d have thought his lordship would have storerooms stuffed with food here. As well as regular deliveries.”

“All true and all managed by the chefs. But Hugh and I are nighttime snackers. And if you’d ever tried hunting down a packet of milk chocolate digestive biscuits or good old fashioned custard creams in that bloody cavern of a kitchen at midnight, then you’d understand. So are you game, or not?”

“Count me in. I'm not ready to eat yet, anyway. But I don’t have a coat with me.”

“Don’t need one. You’re just coming along for the ride.”

To be honest, the thought of catching up with Derek to chat about old times—after the dramas of the morning—is more than welcome. Next to me, Derek prattles on about the trials of living in this wonderful house, as we peel away from the main group and head towards the carpark. I laugh aloud with pleasure when Derek points out his old faithful mustard coloured MG sports car, and am even more pleased to see the soft top cover is already up and fixed in place. Not sure I would be up for an open-top drive in this chill weather. As Derek and I buckle up and we pull out past other cars, I notice a line of green Range Rovers parked up, but in between sits a silver Lexus. The number plate is LA61HXD. Could this be a coincidence? Not wanting to make too much of it, I ask Derek who owns the odd-car-out.

“Tomas Hand,“ he says, rolling his eyes. “Hugh’s dad insists they buy British and use Range Rovers for company business—even though they’re Indian-owned now—but Hand’s singleminded.”

“Dour fellow, isn’t he?”

“Gives me the willies, frankly. Morgan’s right hand man. Came with him when their two companies merged back in 2012. Hugh says they’d be lost without him. Told me he would trust the man with his life. Apparently he helps keep the wheels greased and turning, whatever that means.”

No idea why, but an instinctive shudder runs through me, and I wish I had my safe phone with me now, so that I could find the opportunity to call Ben.

 

Sitting next to Derek as we speed down country lanes feels like old times. Derek is one of those people you can spend time with and not have to continuously worry about what to say. Taking turns, we drag up stories about college folk and days gone by, laugh together and then fall silent. Time races past in his company. Inevitably, the topic turns back to Denny.

“The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced it must have been a trick gone wrong,” says Derek.

“Billy, my lodger, thought so too. According to him, Denny made regular appearances in the woods after dark.”

Derek shakes his head and makes a soft humming sound.

“Problem is he was off his face that night,” I say, expelling a breath. “Doubt he’d have been able to make his way past the front door again, let alone getting to the woods.”

“Where the male libido is concerned, mate, anything’s possible. And perhaps he didn’t need to go anywhere. I know he was technically challenged, but even Denny knew how to pick up and use a telephone.”

Of course. Why did Ben or I not think of that? Did he call someone to his home? But then wouldn’t the police have checked his phone records? And on the night, Denny gave me the impression he had no close friends. Then again, would he have included casual partners as friends? Does Ben Whitehead? I shake my head, not wanting to entertain thoughts about the wayward detective’s extracurricular activities.

“Did you hear about Tony?” I ask.

“Hugh was beside himself. Kid must have been at the end of his tether.”

“I don’t know, Derek. Something’s not right.”

“How do you mean?”

I explain my theory, telling him everything I know, and notice him nodding with each point I make while he navigates bends in the lane. I even tell hm about a policeman friend following up, although I do not give a name. As the winter sun sinks low in the sky, long, open fields are replaced by small cottages and bungalows on either side, until speed restriction signs announce the picturesque village of Portmanton.

“What are you thinking?” I ask, breaking his contemplative silence.

He grimaces then, shaking his head and answering without looking at me.

“If I say I didn’t exactly mourn the passing of Tony, please don’t misinterpret me. But I could see how taken Hugh was with him that very first dinner party. My husband is hopeless at hiding his attraction to a certain type of man. And when we saw no more of him and his friend after that, I let it go. Then dear Denny invited them along to the leaving party at our flat unbeknownst to me. Our bloody flat. I could have killed him.”

He stares ahead now, his mind seeming elsewhere.

“After that night, Hugh and Denny used to socialise regularly with them. And I use the word socialise loosely.”

“Did they?” I ask, trying not to give anything away.

“Phoned the house once. Tony. Didn’t want to leave a message but I would know that voice anywhere. And quite frankly Hugh’s hopeless at keeping secrets. I’ve found paper napkins and a matchbox from a place called The Open Locker advertised on them. Sitting in his trouser pockets as I’m about to do his laundry. Apparently it’s some gay club in London. The silly arse thinks I have no idea.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“You mean would I rather Hugh screws around with rent boys I know, than having a full blown affair that might threaten everything we have? If it were my choice, I would rather he did neither. But if he has to scratch an itch, I’d prefer it be impersonal. And to be honest, I didn’t dislike Tony and his friend. Yes, they were rascals, the both of them. But they were also honest in their own way. I imagine the poor friend—what was his name—?”

“Roland.”

“Roland. Yes, that’s it. I imagine he’s beside himself. Thick as thieves, those two.”

We crawl along the narrow high street. Perhaps I ought to be more surprised that Derek knows about Hugh, but the two of them have been together for years. And Derek has always been the more intuitive of our group. However, he clearly knows nothing about the fate of Roland. A thought comes to me and I decide to probe. Even though Vaughan and I are over, I still have an itch I want to scratch.

“Did you ever hear about Vaughan messing around. When we were together?”

Derek continues to drive, his eyes firmly fixed on the road.

“That’s a conversation you need to have with him.”

“So that’s a ‘yes’, then?”

“All I’m saying is the way Hugh tells it, you two were over long before your uncle passed away.”

I breath out a sigh and peer into the shop window of an undertaker.

“He said as much this morning. Just would have been nice if someone had let me know.”

“For Christ’s sake, Colin. He was never good enough for you, anyway. And at the time I took Hugh’s speculation with more than a pinch of salt. As far as I heard later on, you two were still living together in that old house of your uncle’s, had even taken on a lodger. And with everything else you were going through, what kind of friend would phone and dump that kind of speculative horse shit on you?”

He has a point. Knowing how I was back then, I would not have believed him anyway. Would have probably ended up with one less friend in the world. And to be absolutely honest, what matter does it make now?

“Fair enough. So going back to Tony. What do you think?”

“Does sound a little iffy, mate. Is this policeman friend of yours following up?”

“He tried to. But there’s not a lot to go on.”

“Then leave the plods to do their thing. Right. Here we go,” he says, pulling onto the forecourt of a petrol station that also contains a small express supermarket. He leaves the engine running while opening the door. “Give me a minute.”

“You need a hand?”

”Nope. Stay and keep guard.”

As promised, he returns two minutes later with two bags of shopping. Derek always did shop like a Viking. Opening the driver’s door, he dumps the goods in the restricted back seat space, but as he plops back into the driver’s seat, he drops a magazine into my lap. Hello.

“Remember how much you enjoyed following celebrity gossip,” he says, a smirk on his face.

“You must have me mixed up with some other former boyfriend,” I reply, chuckling and shoving the magazine into the door pocket.

“For Hugh, actually. He loves reading about royalty tittle-tattle. Okay. Just need to get Hugh’s files and then we’ll head home.”

Half an hour further on from the petrol station, as light drains from the winter sky, we turn into a stark industrial estate of metal and concrete. Derek cruises the car along the deserted route, passing columns of wooden pallets, steel roller shutters and darkened windows. Finally, he slows and turns right off the main road following the signs for the car park at the back of a large three-story building of red brick that announces WinterCorp. No lights shine from inside but as Derek pulls up in the directors parking space, the security lights come on. He switches off the engine and turns to me.

“I’ll be around ten to fifteen minutes max. Do you want to come up?”

As office buildings go, this generic one holds nothing of particular interest. Moreover, his offer seems more out of politeness, and we both know that my tagging along is only likely to delay us even more.

“Nope. I’ll stay and keep guard. I’m getting good at it,” I say, before pulling out and waving the magazine. “And maybe catch up on celebrity gossip.”

He reaches to the back of the car, rustles in a plastic bag and pulls out a banana.

“Here,” he says, tossing the fruit to me. “Something to nibble. Or practice on. And if you get bored, get out and stretch your legs.”

After unlocking a corrugated warehouse door, he disappears into the building, locking the door behind him. To pass the time, I munch on the banana and get up to date with Royal Family trivia. After ten minutes, I decide to follow his suggestion, to climb out and stroll around, mainly to find somewhere to dump the peel. Darkness has descended quickly and as I open the car door and climb out, a security light bursts alight. On the top floor of the office block, a couple of neon lights flicker to life. Blowing warm breath into my hand, I realise I am getting a little cold now, and hope Derek will hurry up and find what he needs so we can get back to the party.

Pungent smells of tarmac and a metallic odour I am unable to place hang in the air of the car park—probably a spectre of the day’s diesel fumes. Opposite the office building, tall elms crowd against pristine steel fencing topped with silvery barbed wire. I amble along the building towards the far end where there appears to be a narrow recess on the right, running along an adjoining factory warehouse. I am half tempted to toss the banana peel over the fence into the trees, something the neat freak in me will never allow. Instead I continue on and decided to hunt down a waste bin.

My night with Kit Hansen floats back into my thoughts and sudden confusion fills me. What is happening? Just lately, my life is more like that of a rock star, than a teacher. Although Kit might be less experienced, he seems more in tune with who I am than the closeted copper. Less terms and conditions. More chance of a future together, perhaps, if that is what Kit wants. But then even he comes with a caveat, a finite stay in England. I realise we need to talk, to articulate aloud how we feel about each other. But do I tell him about Ben? Can I mentally write off my nights with the policeman as a mistake or a bad choice, a moment of carnal weakness? Clearly he treated our encounter as a one-off. And then turned up in the early hours of Sunday morning for a second mind-blowing helping. If only I had less scruples, could divorce the physical from the emotional, I could cope with that kind of arrangement and we might stand a chance. And then Vaughan had to be here—safe, sensible, dependable Vaughan—confusing everything. Happily, reconnecting with my other old and familiar friends feels like coming back down to earth. As a couple Derek and Hugh appear calm and together, suiting each other perfectly like one of their antique bone china cup and saucer sets. Except for Hugh’s admission, I would have held them up as the perfect gay couple. Even Paul and Christian have managed to forge a lasting bond. What am I doing wrong?

At the far end of the car park, I turn a corner and keep strolling, noticing another set of empty parking spaces running down the side. These business estate places are so impersonal, so functional and clinically out. Sometimes I wish my life could be this detached and uncomplicated. Another security light springs to life and I see that this route is a dead end. About to turn back I notice a green dumpster at the end of the building, somewhere to toss my litter. As I approach, the security light at the far end blinks on, illuminating graffiti plastered on the red brick wall. I stroll up, lift the lid and dump in the banana peel. Only when I drop the covering and step back do I notice the graffiti is in the form of the familiar word ‘MangaMen’. For a moment I wonder if this could be a coincidence but then notice the familiar brand of dumpster and the CCTV device opposite, fixed on top of the barbed wire fence. I walk over and stand beneath the camera, facing the wall. A perfect match. This has to be the same spot as the video files on the thumb drive.

“Colin?” calls Derek’s voice, from the end of the building. “I wondered where the hell you were? Hugh’s been on the phone.”

When I fail to answer, still reflecting on whether I have made a mistake, he strolls up and stands next me.

“Bloody kids,” he sighs, and then turns to me. “Don’t tell me you’re into this kind of scrawl? Or have you recently developed a thing for dustbins?”

“Sorry Derek,” I say, breaking out of my bafflement. “Really weird. I’m sure I’ve seen this before. CCTV video files on my computer.”

“Lucky you.”

“I mean the graffiti. This particular one. Taken from that security camera. How weird is that?”

I tell him the story of finding the lipstick thumb drive in my coat pocket and checking the files out on my computer that Sunday morning, and how everything appeared exactly the same. Derek stares at me as though I have lost my marbles, before breaking the spell by chuckling with laughter.

“Isn’t that the point, old man? Bored hooligans who design their own graffiti signatures and post them in as many visible spots as they can find. This vandal probably has a thing for carparks and this aerosol mess will probably turn up in any number of similar places across the country. Carparks and graffiti. Honestly. They all look the same to me. Both as ugly as sin.”

With that opinion, I have to agree.

“Yes, you’re probably right.”

“Of course I’m right. Hugh’ll be pissed off, though. I’ll let him know as soon as we get back, so he can get it cleaned up. Come on, let’s go. Almost five. Aperitif time. And Hugh called to ask where we are, said somebody’s been looking for you.”

"Really? Who?”

Perhaps Kit is wondering where we are. We have been away longer than I thought we would be.

“He didn’t say. The important thing is there are glasses of champagne with our names on them back at base.”

While I sit in the car with the engine idling, mulling over whether the graffiti and dumpster could indeed be a coincidence, Derek walks up and down outside making a call to Hugh to let him know we are on our way.

As we eventually bump along the narrow lane to Overton House, just as the mansion comes into view, I spot the silhouettes of Vaughan and Hugh talking to someone before one of the doors. Swinging the car around to the left, the headlights of Derek’s sports car pick out the figures of three men, Vaughan bringing a hand to his eyes to shade them from the light. But seeing the man in between him and Hugh brings a surprised gasp from me. Beside me, Derek notices.

“What’s the matter, old man?”

“The guy Hugh and Vaughan are talking to.”

“Someone you know?”

“Martin. Our geology teacher. Went AWOL from school this morning. What the hell’s he doing here?”