Date: Sun, 10 Aug 2003 11:23:27 EDT
From: MGouda3464@aol.com
Subject: GAMEBOYS

Gameboys
Michael Gouda

11th Matt Silvain story

'The Amusement Arcade' beckoned. Neon lights spelled out the words in
swirls of red and yellow so convoluted as to almost make a nonsense of the
name. Beckon's the wrong word, it shouted, commanded, ordered and like the
children to the Pied Piper, they came. In ones and twos, in groups,
predominantly male, predominantly young. Even though a small card in an
inconspicuous part of the window advised: 'Minimum age 16. Anyone appearing
younger will be asked to leave', many were obviously under sixteen. Some
indeed as young as eleven or less. And no one was asked to leave. A tall,
thin - possibly - 18 year old, though still with pubescent spots, was
ostensibly in charge but he expelled no one and welcomed all with an
expressionless acceptance which was probably more agreeable to the young
arrivals than any sort of smile.

Inside there was a burst of flashing lights, screens with figures in
athletic contortions as enemies were destroyed with an electronic zap. Boys
whose fingers and thumbs worked the keys with practised dexterity stared at
the screens with an almost zombie-like intensity. Some of them wore such a
look of innocence, they wouldn't have been out of place in the church
choir, others covered their innocence with masks of concentration and still
more of the older ones had expressions of world-weariness.

The arcade didn't beckon me. On the contrary I approached it most
reluctantly. As the Bard has it - 'a whining schoolboy creeping like a
snail unwillingly'. It just wasn't my scene. The kids were too young. They
talked a different language. I knew I'd feel out of place. Not that there
weren't a few older guys sprinkled amongst the youth. Older guys with a
predatory look on their strained, yearning faces. I fancifully thought I
could smell the acquisitiveness in the air. It came from the anxious
searching in the older men's eyes and the weary availability in some of the
younger ones. It was summed up, I thought, in the dollar sign embroidered
neatly on the arse cheek of one young man's jeans.

So what, you might ask, was I doing in this place which I so obviously
disliked.

* * * * *

"Good of you to come in, Matt," said Sergeant Shepherd, seated benignly
behind the counter of the local Police Station. He ignored a shrilling
phone until it got too much when he gestured to a constable to answer it
for him.

"I had an option, Charlie?" I said when comparative silence fell.

He smiled. Charlie was a mate of mine. Or at least as much as a policeman
can be a friend of a Private Investigator who often had been in opposition
to the police - and in fact had twice been the suspect in murder cases. He
knew I was gay and it didn't trouble him and his bland, rather full face
always split into a wide grin when he saw me.

"So what's this all about?" I asked. I hadn't really wanted to become
embroiled in the doings of this particular area, not after the shooting of
the late Inspector Skipton. I knew he had been bent, that he'd in fact been
responsible for the death of one Peter Palmer, a hustler, and that he'd
been shot by Peter's brother, Harold. But I didn't want to get
involved. Reason one being that both me and my lover, Paul Massingham,
would have been arrested as accessories as we'd actually been there at the
shooting.

But Charlie had phoned me, said that it was important that I come to see
the new Inspector and that I could, perhaps, help them out in an
investigation. I was intrigued, I must admit, and it would have seemed
strange to refuse, almost suspicious and 'suspicion' was one thing I didn't
want to create.

So here I was in the nick with an 'invitation' to see Inspector Haskins,
the new D.I. The room had its usual green-painted walls, there was no cup
of tea, the only welcoming thing was Charlie's smile.

"What's this Inspector Haskins like?" I asked.

"You'll like him," said Charlie. "Old-fashioned bobby. Worked his way up
through the ranks. Honest but bright. You couldn't slip anything past him,
but he'll treat you straight."

"Not like Skipton," I said, and then called myself stupid. I shouldn't have
mentioned the subject. I could see conflicting emotions on Charlie's
face. I knew he'd disliked the late Inspector but they had both been
coppers and Skipton had been murdered. They don't forget what happens to
one of their own - and no one, as far as I knew, knew he'd been bent.

"OK," I said. "What's he want to see me about? Are you allowed to tell me?"

"He told me to sound you out first. The situation is this. There's an
amusement arcade which we think is being used to attract young boys into
underage sex. We want someone to infiltrate, find out what's really going
on and if we're right, get the guys who are running it.

"Why me?"

Charlie looked embarrassed. "It's got to be someone gay," he said.

I was cross, no, more than that, furious. "I may be gay," I said, "but I'm
not a pedophile. Why do you straights think they're the same? Is a
so-called normal guy automatically thought of as lusting after little
girls?"

"I thought you'd react like that. And you're right. Of course we don't
think all gays are after little boys. But you'd know how a gay man
behaves. You wouldn't stick out like a police plant. Put a constable in
baggy jeans and a leather top, teach him how to mince and lisp and he still
looks, walks, and smells like a cop."

I nearly laughed. "And you haven't got any gays in the force?" I didn't
tell him that I knew of at least two in that very station who were as gay
as August Bank Holiday. I didn't - and couldn't - tell him that the late
Inspector Skipton had been gay and shafting Peter Palmer at every available
opportunity before the relationship soured up and Skipton killed him to
stop being outed.

"We probably have," said Charlie, "but they ain't admitting it, Look, Matt,
you don't have to do this but it's an unpleasant, vile trade if what we
suspect is really going on - kids of twelve and thirteen, perhaps even
younger - and if we can stop it, arrest whoever's organising it, surely
that's a good thing."

Of course I agreed - which was why I was entering the Arcade, feeling
completely out of place and at the moment wishing that I'd said no.

* * * * * *

Of course being and looking furtive probably wasn't a bad disguise for a
guy who was scouting out the land to pick up underage boys. Certainly no
one descended on me, demanding to know what I was doing. In fact the spotty
'bouncer' - if that was his job - nodded to me, almost as if I was a
regular.

I wasn't sure how to proceed so I decided to tell the truth. "This is my
first time," I said to him.

He nodded in an unhelpful way. It was obvious that he wasn't going to
introduce me to the nearest underage boy and send us off with the key to a
nice little fuck-nest.

"Ere, Sam," said someone from out of the electronic gloom. "This fucker's
on the blink."

Sam took this information with as much enthusiasm as he had my comment. If
he wasn't going to bounce the kids, then equally apparently he wasn't about
to sort out some misbehaving computer game.

"So, Sam," I said, "What do I do?"

Sam shrugged. "You puts your money in and you punches the knobs," he
said. "Squeeze the tit or the cock, whichever suits your fancy."

I looked to see if he was giving anything away but his face was blank. It
hadn't meant anything, well, nothing significant I was fairly sure. He
turned away, losing interest, wandering off to look at a guy whose flashing
fingers and obvious dexterity was achieving spectacular results on the
screen.

I cursed the guys who had sent me into this embarrassing mess, but then,
someone who was really out to find a chicken for sex wouldn't necessarily
be an expert at arcade games. Or would he? Wouldn't the guy bone up on the
action so that, at least he'd have something in common with the
customers. I looked round vaguely.

There was a vacant machine. On the screen a muscle-bound 'hero' punched his
way round a boxing ring laying out opponents right left and
centre. Tentatively I prodded at a button. Nothing happened. I peered
closer. There were some instructions on the side. 'Insert a £ coin' it
said. So much for my listening to Sam's instructions. I put in a quid. The
screen cleared and then the guy appeared alone in the centre of the ring. I
tried a button. He turned around. I tried another. The boxer flashed out
his right fist. Another one, and he was a southpaw. This was easy. Another
guy, equally beefy entered the ring. I turned my guy to face him, aimed a
blow, missed and I was flat on the floor. The referee counted me out. 'GAME
OVER'.

Someone near to me laughed from out of the gloom. "Ain't much cop in the
boxing ring are you, mate?" A face swam into view lit by the alternating
lights of a screen, red, green, yellow, blue. A young boy's face, not as
young as some here, perhaps sixteen. At least his voice had broken. Dark
hair, short, combed into a fringe over his forehead. Ears that stuck out a
little and for a moment I was reminded of my lover, Paul, who, when he wore
his hair short, also had the same look, but here the resemblance
ended. Bright eyes, In the dimness and against the lights I couldn't see
the colour. Full lips curled into the suggestion of a smile. Altogether
attractive. Thin body that would fill out into a real athletic build in his
twenties and, then, I felt sure, would fatten with lack of exercise into
premature middle-age. But now flushed with the health and vitality of the
young.

I acknowledged his comment with a wry smile. "I guess not," I said.

"Any good on a motor bike?" He gestured at an amusement down the aisle. Two
imitation motor bikes, or at least the seats and handlebars, faced side by
side a single screen.

"I used to ride," I said. It was true. I once had had a two-stroke, though
had given it up after running into a van which had pulled out of a side
road into my path. The only casualty had been the bike but afterwards I'd
decided that a car was safer.

"Give you a race," he said. "If you'll pay. I'm clean out. More fun with
two." I looked to see if there was any significance in the remark but his
expression remained bland. His eyes were green, I noticed.

We climbed on to the bikes. I inserted coins for each machine. There was an
electronic attempt at a motorbike roar which increased when I wound the
accelerator.

I turned to face him. "My name's Matt," I said. He was wearing a dark blue
sweatshirt with two white bands across the chest and the number 3 also in
white just above where his umbilicus would be.

"Zack," he said. What sort of name was that? Who in their right mind would
name a child these days 'Zack'? Zacchariah? Perhaps it was a street name.

I'll give him his due. He kept his speed down while I got to terms with the
controls. It was fairly easy. The handlebars did the steering. Right hand
accelerated and left braked. The road unfurled on the screen ahead of us
and there were various hazards along the way, zigzags, dangerous corners,
other vehicles to overtake or avoid, stupid pedestrians occasionally
wandering into our path. In a little while, he accelerated and I twisted
the grip to keep up with him.

Zack was lying low over the handlebars, as if to lessen the wind
resistance, as if he could actually feel the wind flowing over his back. He
flung himself over to the sides as he went round corners. It couldn't have
done any good, of course, although, even though my throttle was at the
extreme, he was still going faster than I was, and barely slowing down to
take the tightest corner. A sign for a humpbacked bridge suddenly appeared!
Zack ignored it but I slowed slightly. Even so, on the screen, my little
bike took off and then I realised there was a sharp bend to the left
immediately after. I wrenched the handlebars over, braking hard but my
wheels had no traction, not even touching the surface. The bike couldn't
clear the fencing at the side of the road. It catapulted upwards, turning
over and over before crashing to the ground in a spectacular display of
sparks and flame.

Zack turned to me, his face alight, a broad grin splitting his face. "You
done good," he said. "Winner stays, loser pays! Try again?"

After a few more goes we ran out of steam and I figured that this would be
the last I'd see of him. But before we parted he asked me if I wanted to
get something to eat. "Wanna buy me a burger?" he asked. His blatant
materialism, the almost tacit acceptance that I would pay, didn't upset
me. His face was frank and open. He asked and I could accept or not. I
didn't think he'd be upset even if I refused.

I nodded and we made our way towards the exit. Sam, the spotty-faced
'bouncer', was deep in conversation with a middle-aged man, their heads
close together. As I got nearer I suddenly recognised the other man. It was
Dave MacMillan.

Now, MacMillan and I had met before and only recently. He was the owner of
several gay clubs and, I'd been told by a friend who knows about these
things, probably a drug dealer. His business partner, Harold Palmer, had
been the guy who'd shot Inspector Skipton that time with Paul and me as
witnesses. I didn't want anything to do with either of them. But I couldn't
understand what MacMillan was doing here. I'd been reliably informed that
he wasn't into young guys - Harold Palmer, possibly was - but not
MacMillan. I'd only met MacMillan once and perhaps he wouldn't have
recognised me again but I didn't want to take the chance.

"You see that guy there," I said to Zack, turning my back and pointing over
my shoulder, "talking to Sam. Do you know who he is?"

Zack peered. "Sure," he said. "That's Big Mac. He owns the place."

'Big Mac'! Huh! Last I'd heard he'd called himself 'the Padre' but perhaps
he used a different name for each of his 'undertakings'. So, he owned the
Arcade and presumably knew about what was going on there. No one did things
behind the Padre's back and expected to get away with it.

I sidled out looking away from MacMillan and we reached the street without
his noticing, Zack giving me a curious look which I ignored. The Burger Bar
was a couple of shops down the road on the other side.

I'd expected him to sit opposite me but he followed me onto the bench and
we sat next to each other and Zack wolfed down a Double Ham'n'Cheese with
fries and a milk shake. I sipped at a coffee, watching him from time to
time. It was still early evening and the place was half empty. There was an
innocence about him away from the Arcade. It was as if that was his
territory and there he was boss. Outside he was just a kid and seemed to
lack confidence.

He finished the food and drank the shake.

"Do you live nearby?" I asked.

Instantly it was as if a defensive shield went up. His eyes looked at me
suspiciously. For a moment he looked much younger than the sixteen years I
had estimated. A young child stared out. "Why?" he asked.

"No reason," I said. "Just asking. My flat's only a couple of streets
away. I assumed you didn't travel any distance to get to the Amusement
Arcade. You're obviously a regular there."

He nodded and relaxed; the self-possessed cockiness back. "I ain't seen you
there before," he said. I felt a slight pressure as our thighs
touched. He'd moved nearer as he drained the shake. "Do you wanta go back
to your flat?" he asked. The thigh pressed harder making the suggestion
explicit. But there was nothing sleazy about his invitation. His smile was
frank and open and I knew if I said yes, he'd be just as forthright about
the price. Or so I thought.

"Not tonight," I said, nearly adding an automatic 'Josephine' but I stopped
myself. He might not have recognised the reference and felt it was an
insult to his manhood. "I like you but there are complications. Perhaps we
can meet again." I wanted to ask questions but was afraid that, if I pushed
it, he'd clam up. "My name's Matt Silvain."

"OK," he said, neither upset nor disappointed. His hand reached into my
groin and squeezed me. "Yes, I can see you like me." He laughed, and walked
out of the Burger Bar. I watched him as he crossed the road and went back
to the Arcade. He'd had his meal from me. Now he was off for something
else.

* * * * * *

Paul was quiet and seemed a little out of sorts when I got home. "You've
had a visitor," he said. "Charlie Shepherd called wanting to hear how you'd
got on."

"I'd have let then know down at the nick. Couldn't they wait?"

"I think he just wanted a chat," said Paul, giving me a sharp look, which
at the time I didn't understand. "He drank three cups of tea."

"Always was one for the tea," I said. "I suppose he told you what they
wanted me to do down at the Arcade. What they didn't tell me that Dave
MacMillan owned the place."

"You're getting into deep waters," said Paul, nodding. "The police must
have known he owned the Arcade. Why didn't they tell you?" We sat at the
table with the remnants of the evening meal between us. Chicken Korma
followed by strawberries and yoghurt. Apart from the fruit, it had all come
from packets. Two busy working lads didn't have time for 'real' cooking at
the end of the day.

"I don't know. Perhaps they thought that a guy going into the Arcade
wouldn't know anything about the management. All they wanted me to find out
was how the links between the kids and the adults were made."

Paul looked worried. "You don't think the police have a suspicion that we
are connected in some way with MacMillan and Palmer and it's all a sort of
trap for us, or at least you, to fall into."

"No," I said. "I think that's too devious - even for the new guy,
Haskins. Charlie says he's straight. I was quite impressed."

"They don't like one of their own being killed," he said, a dubious frown
creasing his forehead. It made him look vulnerable and troubled. I leant
over the table and kissed him but he drew back. "So, what did you find
out?"

"Well, I made a contact." And I told him about Zack, leaving out the bit
about his farewell grope.

"That's all?"

"I'll get back to him tomorrow," I said. "The only way I could get any
further was to drag him back to the flat. I guess you wouldn't have
approved."

Paul looked at me. "As if you haven't done it before," he said.

"What!"

"Oh, come off it, Matt. Do you think I've been blind all these months?" He
got to his feet and the chair he'd been sitting on fell backwards.

"What do you mean?"

Paul counted the names off on his fingers. "Let's see, there was Ted Parry,
the policeman, Rod Boyston, Joe, That daft UFO guy. My friend, Martin
Kasmir. Charlie told me that you met Pete Palmer in the coffee bar and were
going back to his flat for sex when you found him dead - and what about
Alec from the Coffee Experience?" He blazed with anger.

The litany of names rocked me back on my heels. They weren't all true. Ted
Parry, for instance, had wanted to get me into bed but had failed. Roderick
Boyston hadn't got past the groping stage.

"You knew about Joe," I said. "The others were just mistakes. They didn't
mean anything." It was a pathetic, blustering attempt at extenuation and I
knew it sounded completely unconvincing. Charlie in his bumbling. chatty
way, had completely dropped me in the shit.

But now Paul's anger had dissolved into something worse. It was as if
something inside him had crumbled. He sagged. "Wasn't I enough for you?" he
asked, his face pale and strained.

I had no answer. Paul was my everything. In bed, at home, just being with
him. He was the one whose body I held next to mine in lust, pushed aside in
anger. comforted, loved. missed when he wasn't there. But there was always
something in me which I couldn't control. An attractive guy made a pass at
me, showed me that he was available, gave me a swift grope and opened the
door to his bedroom - and I was there.

And now I'd really blown it.

I could see Paul struggling with his tears. I went round the table and
tried to take him in my arms but he wrenched himself free, turned away and
ran from the room. I couldn't believe this was happening. It would all be
all right. I'd leave him for ten minutes. He'd have a cry and then I'd go
to him. We'd fall into each other's arms. He'd forgive me as he had
before. I'd promise it would never happen again, and this time I'd really
make sure it never did.

Everything was quiet. I wanted to go to him more than anything but I forced
myself to wait. Outside a car started breaking the silence, the ignition
needing to be turned twice before it caught, and then the sound of it
driving off down the road. Silence returned. I wasn't sure how long I'd
waited but it felt an age. I went into the hall. The door to our bedroom
was shut. I listened but there was no sound. I knocked. "Paul," I said. No
answer. I opened the door. I could see straight away that he'd
gone. Drawers were open and clothes pulled out. A suitcase from above the
wardrobe was missing. He'd taken what he needed and must have gone out of
the flat quietly. The car! The car I'd heard starting. I ran to the front
door and stared at the empty place where Paul's car had been parked. He'd
gone. And I had no idea where.

* * * * * *

I didn't sleep much that night. A couple of hours before dawn I dozed off
and woke up as the light filtered through the window. I reached out for
Paul and found only cold emptiness.

As soon as was civilised, I started phoning. But his mobile was switched
off and there was no answer from his work.

I made a cup of coffee and as I did so, my phone rang. I snatched up the
receiver. "Paul, Paul," I said. "Please forgive me."

"Is that you, Matt," said a voice I didn't recognise.

"Shit," I said. "Who is that?"

"Zack."

In the state I was in, the name meant nothing to me.

"Who?" I asked.

"Zack," he said. "We met yesterday at the Arcade. Look, I need some help."

"How did you get my number?" I asked.

"You're in the book," he said. "As a Private Investigator."

So much for my cover. Presumably that meant my job at the Arcade was
over. But in fact I felt relieved. Now I could put all my effort into my
private problems.

"OK, Zack," I said. "What do you want?"

"Can we meet? Please, Matt. It's very urgent. At the Burger Bar this
morning." He sounded agitated. There was a catch in his voice as if he'd
been - or perhaps still was - crying.

I looked at my watch. "Ten o'clock." I said. That would give me two hours
to see if I could find Paul.

"Thanks, Matt." He rang off.

I sipped my coffee and tried to think of where Paul might have gone. I
doubted whether it would be to his parents. They hadn't taken the news that
their son was gay very well. They'd been even less enthusiastic when they
learned that he was moving in with me. Not that there had been a screaming,
homophobic scene or anything like that but relations had been frosty. They
didn't like me and I didn't think Paul would have made them his first
choice.

There were his friends Martin and John but now that Paul had learned - how
had he done that? - that I'd had a little affair with Martin, again it
seemed unlikely that he'd go to them for sanctuary.

The phone rang again. This time I was more circumspect though just as quick
at picking up the receiver.

"Hello."

"Matt, it's Charlie Shepherd. I asked Paul to get you to ring me last
night. Was there a problem?"

"Yes, Charlie, there was. Thank you for dropping me so deep in the shit
that Paul's left me."

There was a pause - and when Charlie spoke again, his voice was low and
apologetic. "Christ, I'm sorry, Matt. I thought you and Paul had this sort
of open relationship. You know, go with who you like as long as you come
home to me. I never realised . . . " His voice died away.

"Well, it's done now," I said. "I only hope I can smooth things over in
time. Anyway, what did you want?"

"D.I. Haskins wants you to report on yesterday and then be back at the
Arcade this morning."

"My cover's been blown," I said, and told him about Zack, and how he'd
found out I was a P.I.

"Find out what you can from him," said Charlie. "He may not have said
anything to the guys in charge at the Arcade."

"That's another thing," I said. "You never told me Dave Macmillan owned it
- and Dave Macmillan knows me."

Charlie gave a whistle of concern. "It's all a bit of a cock-up," he
said. "Well, meet Zack this morning as you arranged, see what he has to say
and then we'll decide on what to do next. I'll tell Haskins the situation."

So I still wasn't off the hook as regards the Arcade. Now I'd agreed to
look into Zack's problem, whatever that was - and there still was my own
completely fucked-up private life. I drained my coffee which tasted as
bitter as guilt.

* * * * * *

I hadn't tracked down Paul, still not able to get him on his mobile and the
word from his workplace was that he'd called in sick. Whether this was true
or not, I wasn't sure. He might have given instructions that he was 'out'
to me. I thought of ringing again under an assumed name, but decided this
was taking things too far. What if the receptionist saw through my
disguise, I'd feel a complete twat.

I got to the Burger Bar just before ten and it was packed. Obviously it was
coffee time for the offices and shops around. Zack wasn't there, so I got
myself a coffee, decided that, although I didn't feel hungry, I ought to
eat something, so bought something vaguely meaty and greasy in a bun and
sat as close to the door as possible so that I could see Zack when he
arrived.

The clock ticked on. Several people looked at me with my drained plastic
cup and half-eaten bun. A boy clearing tables caught my eye and gave me a
half grin. It was half past ten. I decided I'd been stood up though I
couldn't understand why as it had been Zack who'd been so insistent to meet
me. I stood up to go and a woman who'd been standing behind me and sighing
officiously, swept into my seat with a scarcely sub-vocal, "At last."

I could give the whole thing up and devote the rest of the day to looking
for Paul but I'd no idea where to look, so I went to the Amusement
Arcade. It was exactly as it had been the day before, the same earnest,
intense young faces staring into screens, fingers or arms - sometimes whole
bodies - twitching to make the brightly coloured ghosts do their
bidding. The same sounds, electronic approximations of real life. Sam,
wandering around like an unhealthy zombie. I stopped him in an aisle. "Have
you seen Zack?" I asked.

"I expect he's around," he said vaguely. "He usually is."

I couldn't see him. Nor for that matter could I see MacMillan but that
didn't mean anything. The bossman might be anywhere, in another part of his
'empire', in a back room counting his takings - no, he'd have accountants
to do that for him. Perhaps even peering at screens where hidden cameras
took pictures of unwanted interlopers into his domain - me, for instance. I
looked around guiltily but no one was staring at me as if I was doing
anything suspicious.

I found Sam again. "If you see Zack, could you tell him I was looking for
him?" I asked.

"Whatever," he said.

So I went. Standing in the street outside, I called Paul again on my
mobile. Still no answer. I tried the Nick. D.I. Haskins was out. So was
Charlie. I left a message saying I'd call in later. I rang home, hoping
against hope that there might be a message on the answer phone from
Paul. 'You have one message', said the precise. disembodied voice, and my
heart leapt. 'Your message timed at 10.03 today. First message:'

There was a pause.

A voice, harsh, cracked, talking with what appeared great difficulty, with
gasps between the words. "Matt . . . yer . . . gotta . . . help me
. . . I'm . . . at . . ." there was an even longer pause and I feared that
whatever had happened to Zack had been too much when the last words forced
themselves out. "Flat 1 . . . 7 Hope . . . Terrace." The message
disconnected.

* * * * * *

Just after ten Zack had made that despairing phone call and now an hour had
passed. I had no idea where Hope Terrace was, nor had any passer-by whom I
asked, but then they were tourists, office workers, shoppers from out of
town - not people born and bred in this part of London.

There was a newsagent just down the road. Surely they would know. They
would have to deliver newspapers in the area. A man, thickset and
bespectacled stood behind the counter idly flicking over the pages of an OK
magazine. "Do you know where Hope Terrace is?" I asked.

Without a glance at me he reached behind and picked up an A to Z. I thought
at first he was going to look it up for me but instead he handed it over
and demanded £2. Mercenary - but I suppose understandable. After all he
was in business. I paid and turned to the index. Hope Terrace, W.C.1. The
relevant page showed me that Hope Terrace was a small road actually
branching off the one I was in. It was a cul-de-sac.

Hope Terrace was just what it said, a terrace, two lines of joined
Victorian houses, their front doors leading straight out onto the
pavement. From the general run-down appearance of the buildings, it looked
as if 'Hope' was all it had left; Prosperity had certainly passed it by. On
the right hand side were numbers 1, 3, 5 and 7. On the left 2, 4, 6 and
8. I raced along. Number 7 had bell pushes marked with the flat numbers
and/or names. There were three, one per floor, I assumed. I pressed the
bell for Flat 1 but nothing happened. Flat 2 had a name in smudged Biro
'R. Johnson'. I tried that but again there was no answer. Flat 3 had the
name neatly printed, 'Mrs Peters'. A thin, quavery voice answered over the
speaker.

"Who is it?"

"Mrs Peters," I said. "This is Zack. I've forgotten my outdoor key. Could
you let me in?"

"You're back?" asked the voice. "Whom do you want to see?"

"Not 'back'," I said. "Zack. Can you let me in?"

"I can't hear," she said. "I'll let you in and you can tell me what you
want. I'm on the top floor."

The lock buzzed and the door clicked open. A flight of stairs led upwards;
a door with a number 1 on it was on the left. I banged on it. "Zack," I
said,. "It's me, Matt."

There was a pause and then the door slowly opened.

"Jesus Christ Almighty," I said.

* * * * * *

Paul stared into the middle distance. A newspaper article he'd supposed to
be reviewing lay on the desk in front of him. He'd already read it twice
and still had no idea what it was about. An untouched plastic cup of coffee
cooled beside him, a skin forming on top.

He'd spent the night at the flat of a friend he'd been at college with some
six years before. They'd kept in touch - more or less - and the friend had
been one of those guys who had kept the easygoing life-style of the student
even though now he was in a job and going out seriously with a girl. Paul's
arriving unannounced and with a request for a bed for the night had been
received with curiosity but no great astonishment. The simple explanation
that he'd split with his partner - the friend wasn't aware that Paul was
gay, and that the partner was male - had been received with casual
sympathy. "Stay as long as you want," he'd said, before disappearing into
his own bedroom with his girlfriend and leaving the couch for Paul to toss
and turn on for the remainder of the night. The, not very subdued, sounds
of passion from next door hadn't helped of course but it was the break-up
of his own relationship which caused him the most distress.

Paul was one of those people who, when he fell in love, loved
absolutely. He'd been in love once before, with a guy called Joseph Carter,
who had been murdered. 1 It had taken a great deal of time to get over that
one and he'd been tentative about making any sort of commitment with Matt
but he had eventually done so - and even overlooked, as far as that was
possible, the extramarital affairs that Matt had indulged in. But Charlie's
revelation that there had been so many more than he knew about had finally
forced a crisis. There was no comprehension in Paul's philosophy that love
could be partial or apportioned or put to one side, even for the time
being, if someone else attractive and available hove into view.

Now he felt desperately miserable. He ought to feel that his heart was
broken but the discomfort he felt was in the pit of his stomach - perhaps
that was the seat of emotions. He'd been hurt but wondered whether his
abrupt decision to leave had been sensible or just a spontaneous act of
immaturity. He knew - or was pretty sure - that Matt loved him. Wasn't it
possible to overlook the 'other' side of Matt's libido? Again? And how many
more times?

"Aren't you feeling well?" asked Sheila, his boss, as she passed his
desk. As always with her, sympathy was in short supply. She'd had to fight
her way to the top and had no intention of showing any sort of
compassionate weakness in her own make-up on which others could assault
her.

"What? Oh sorry. Yes, I'm OK. Just got a few personal problems," said Paul.

"Don't let them stop you finishing that review," she said shortly. "I want
it by midday."

"Bitch," said Paul, under his breath, but her interruption had forced him
to stop thinking of himself. He pulled himself together and started the
article again. This time it was making a bit of sense. He made a few notes.

Perhaps it was time that he split with Matt, however hard that would be. He
would have to see him of course, but later. He needed some things from the
flat. He'd go and collect them in his lunch hour when Matt would be at
work.

He looked back at the article and for a second his eyes blurred with
tears. Angrily he wiped them aside.


* * * * * *

Zack was in the spare room. I'd done what I could for him. I wanted to take
him straight to hospital but he'd refused. Someone had done a really good
job at beating him up, but they'd been clever about it. I didn't think
anything was actually broken - if it had been I'd have insisted on hospital
whatever Zack had said, but it was mainly bruises and cuts that had made
him look so terrible when he opened the door to me, his clothes torn, vivid
welts over both eyes, blood running down his face.

There was nowhere else I could take him, as he refused to go to hospital
and wouldn't tell me where his home was. I got him back to the flat and
gently took off his clothes, wincing at the bruises and abrasions which
were all over the tender young skin of his body and legs. Now that I'd
gently washed him and put him to bed, he looked better, though felt, he
admitted, awful. I fed him some Paracetamol but understandably he didn't
want any food.

"Do you feel up to telling me what happened?" I asked.

He groaned. "Leave it till later," he said.

I nodded and left him there, looking young and vulnerable, his eyes shut,
youthful features twisted into a grimace of pain. Hopefully the analgesics
would begin to work soon and he'd sleep.

As I reached the kitchen I heard the sound of a key in the lock of the
front door. I ran out into the hall. It was Paul, looking pale and
strained.

"Oh," he said, as he saw me. "I didn't think you'd be home. I need some
things."

"Paul," I said. "Surely we can talk about this. I can't bear it if you
leave."

He hesitated, looking at me warily, his hair dishevelled. I wanted to take
him in my arms. "It's just that - " he started when there was a sound from
the spare room.

"What's that?" asked Paul.

"Matt," Zack called clearly.

"Have you got someone there?" asked Paul.

Oh shit, I thought. I said, "It's that young guy, Zack. I told you about
him. He'd nowhere to go and - "

Paul interrupted. "So you did bring him back. No sooner was I out of the
way than you're bringing guys back."

"You don't understand," I said desperately. "He was beaten up. He wouldn't
let me take him to hospital. Take a look at him. He's in a dreadful state."

"I don't want to see him," said Paul, outraged. "Who do you think you are?
Fucking Florence Nightingale." He turned and stormed out of the front door.

"Wait," I said. "Paul, please wait."

But he'd gone and I heard the car squeal off down the road.

Shit! Oh shit! Oh shit! Why was everything going wrong?

I went in to see Zack. He'd pulled himself into a sitting position,
supported against the headrest of the bed. I arranged the pillows so that
he was more comfortable. I recalled Paul's jibe about Florence Nightingale.

"Why don't you try to sleep?" I asked, sounding even more nurse-like.

"I can't." There was a pause. "It said in the phone book you were a P.I."

I nodded.

"Are you investigating the business at the Arcade?"

I sat down on the side of the bed, making sure that I didn't touch him. I
nodded again.

"For underage sex?"

"That's part of it," I said. "We want the adults who are doing it, not the
kids."

"So you weren't trying to pick me up?" There was a trace of a smile on his
swollen lips.

"Not exactly."

"But you wouldn't really have minded? You got turned on in the Burger Bar."

"Zack," I said. "I'm married. I live here with a guy. It doesn't stop me
lusting a bit but I don't do anything about it." I felt a complete
hypocrite but wanted to get the conversation away from dangerous ground. I
didn't know what the future was between Paul and me but I didn't want to
fuck it up even further, in case something could be salvaged.

"Not much I could do for you anyway at the moment."

I ignored that. "What happened this morning? Two phone calls, the first you
were upset but not like the second one."

"OK," said Zack. "It was a bad night. The punter had paid for a full night,
but he was gross. When he wanted to do it again in the morning I wouldn't
let him. I wanted out. I thought you might be able to help me."

"And then he beat you up?"

"Not him," said Zack. "He left, but must have complained and a couple of
bullies arrived to 'punish' me just as I was about to leave to meet you."

"Who were they?"

"One was a big guy employed at the Arcade for duties - not sure exactly
what he does. I've seen him around."

"Was the other one 'Big Mac'?" I asked.

"No," said Zack.

"What about Harold Palmer?" I asked, going on a private hunch.

"Don't know him."

"Guy about 40, has a scar down the left side of his face. Uses a hammer as
punisher."

Zack shook his head.

Of course the two goons could have been hired by either MacMillan or Palmer
- or in fact by anyone. But the fact that one of them worked at the Arcade
which was owned by MacMillan suggested that he was the boss.

"Tell me how it works," I said.

"Kids are 'recruited' by older ones. Punter pays money in Arcade. I don't
know who to. Kids get payment weekly. Just a job, piece work," he said
bitterly.

"Who actually gives you the money?"

"The big guy from the Arcade."

"Is he running the outfit?"

"Doubt it. He's as thick as two short planks."

So there wasn't much evidence to tie in MacMillan or Palmer. I could tell
this to Charlie or Inspector Haskins. No doubt they could arrest the bully
but if he wouldn't talk, if he denied everything, there was nothing to link
to the real boss - or bosses. It was obvious that I'd have to get back into
the Arcade, be more upfront about wanting to 'date' one of the young kids.

"How do I get into the system?" I asked.

Zack gave me a long look from those already blackening eyes. "You want to
watch out, Matt," he said. "They don't play games, not if they find you're
not what you say."

What was this sixteen year old telling me, ten years his senior, to watch
out? But it was nice that he felt enough for me to care. I felt a hand on
my thigh. Suddenly I realised that there was a half-naked boy in the bed I
was sitting on. Not that I hadn't realised it before, after all I'd put him
there, helped him out of his clothes, all except his underwear, and washed
the blood off. Before, though, it had been charity and I'd banished any
lubricious thoughts from my mind. Now, that hand changed everything. I felt
something stir in my trousers.

"Thought you said there wasn't much you could do for me," I said, half
jokingly.

"My hand's OK," said Zack and felt for my groin.

A hard choice but I made it. "Better not," I said, thinking of Paul. I got
up, though the erection showed. "I'll be back later. If you need anything,
there's food in the kitchen. But sleep if you can."

Zack made a grimace and blew a kiss from twisted lips. "Take care," he
said. "Have a word with Sam."

* * * * * *

For the second time that day, I went into the Arcade. On the way I'd called
Charlie, telling him what I was doing and that, if anyone was the villain,
it was probably MacMillan.

"Haskin's out," Charlie had said doubtfully. "Perhaps you ought to wait
till he comes back."

"Inspector Haskins," I had said reprovingly. "Haven't you got any respect
for authority? I'll let you know what happens."

"Hang on - " but I'd rung off.

It felt almost like coming home. I strode in as if I belonged. There was a
young guy, blond, face like a cherub, lips like a cock-sucker, on one of
the games. His immature body twisted with the vigour of his actions. His
arse, encased in combat trousers, waggled enticingly.

Sam wandered up the aisle looking as indifferent as always. I remembered
Zack's parting advice. "That's a nice-looking boy," I said, nodding at the
one I'd noticed.

"He's not been in today," Sam said, and when I looked bewildered, added,
"Zack. You asked about him this morning."

"I'm not interested in Zack anymore," I said, and then, casting discretion
to the winds. "It's that lad who caught my fancy."

Sam glanced in the boy's direction but didn't seem to be all that
concerned. He just nodded and wandered off into the dimness at the back of
the premises. Perhaps he hadn't understood what I was aiming at. He looked
stupid enough. I wondered what on earth MacMillan was thinking of when he
employed him and for what purpose. He seemed ineffectual enough. In fact I
hadn't seen him doing anything.

"Hi," I said to the boy, who gave me a brief, appraising glance and then
turned back to his screen. I wasn't sure what the scenario was but alien
looking creatures kept appearing from behind cover and were killed or
mutilated by the lad's swift responses. "You're good at that, aren't you?
Bet you're good at everything you do." It was an appalling pickup line and
I squirmed as I said it.

The boy gave me another look which expressed his contempt. "Yeah, I'm
good," he said. "And worth every penny."

Well, cack-handed I might have been, but it looked as if I'd made
contact. "How much?" I asked.

"You better ask at the office," said the boy, gesturing to the back of the
premises.

"What's your name, son?" I asked.

"Andy."

I found a door in the gloom and pushed it open. It led into a short
corridor with a door on each side and one at the end. I though probably
that the end one led out of the Arcade. One of the others must be 'the
office'. I knocked on one and, as I did so, I heard the other door open and
felt a heavy hand clasp my shoulder, squeezing hard, turning me round. At
the same time a delicate, educated voice said, "Good afternoon, Mr
Silvain."

I recognised the huge figure of Dave MacMillan's gorilla whom I'd last seen
at Gracey's Club standing menacingly over me.

"Cedric," I said, weakly.

"Perhaps we should have a talk." It sounded like a suggestion but I knew it
was a command. Keeping his hand on my shoulder he walked me through the
door into a small office, where there was a desk and a couple of chairs, a
mirror on the wall. A computer screen was filled by a screen saver in which
various brightly coloured fish swam lazily around. There were no windows
and an angled lamp on the desk threw a pool of light, the only
illumination. I felt completely cut off and the outside world seemed a
long, long way away. There wasn't even the sound of traffic from the main
road outside. Someone could scream in here and not be heard, I thought to
myself - and wished that I hadn't.

"Well, fancy seeing you here," I said, trying to make light of the whole
situation. "And how's Mr MacMillan?"

"What are you here for, Mr Silvain?" asked Cedric, ignoring my crass
pleasantries.

"Oh you know," I said weakly, "I was just looking for a bit of company."

"What sort of company?"

"Young company."

"I didn't realise you was into that sort of thing, Mr Silvain. I thought
you was a married man, if you takes my meaning." Cedric's educated veneer
seemed to have slipped since leaving Gracey's or perhaps it was just
something he put on when he became the West End club doorman. In either
case he was just as scary.

"I like a bit of a change," I said. "The seven year itch and all that."

"Have you really been married for seven years?"

"Actually not. That was just a sort of metaphor. We have an open
relationship." Very open, I thought, in fact at the moment so open as to be
non-existent.

Cedric grunted, his whole frame expressing disapproval of all things
metaphorical. "Why don't you take a sear," he said eventually.

I did so thankfully. I hoped that meant at least that I wasn't going to get
beaten up.

Cedric sat himself behind the desk and jabbed the computer into life. From
where I sat, I couldn't see the screen but he looked at it for some time,
his lips moving as he presumably read something. Then he typed a couple of
words, waited a while perhaps for an answer and eventually looked at me.

"OK, Mr Silvain. that seems satisfactory. I just need a few details. You
understand we have to be careful with our clients in this delicate
arrangement."

Delicate! And illegal! But I couldn't see Cedric organising this all on his
own. How had Zack described him? Thick as two short planks and certainly I
had never seen him as anyone except a carrier out of orders. Was someone
giving him orders now, perhaps over the computer, someone who was looking
at us now - through the two-way mirror behind me. I restrained myself from
turning round but I could feel the hairs at the back of my neck curling.

The questions were probing and extensive. I answered as truthfully as
possible and Cedric slowly inputted the answers into the computer. At the
end he waited for a moment and then said, "We'll have to check up on this,
but if everything is kosher then there should be no problem. We'll need a
deposit of £100 to start off. The charges vary on the age of the product
and the time you wish to spend with him, also of course what you want to
do."

It all seemed cold-bloodied and I felt sick. "I don't have that sort of
money on me," I said.

"Of course not. Now, I understand you're interested in young Andy. As a
gesture of goodwill, we're prepared to let the two of you get acquainted
this afternoon."

I breathed a sigh of relief. I'd be able to get out after all, then
something struck me. How did Cedric know it was Andy I'd been talking to?
There may have been CCTV but surely the Arcade was too dark to really make
out features. But if Cedric hadn't seen me, the only person who had seen my
interest was - Sam. Sam? Dozy, ineffectual Sam? But perhaps a good cover.

Saying nothing Cedric escorted me back into the Arcade and to the station
where young Andy was enthusiastically still pounding aliens into the
dirt. "He's all yours," said Cedric.

"Where do we go?" I asked.

"He knows," said Cedric. "Just tell him you're on a special offer."

I touched the lad on the shoulder. "Care for a burger?" I asked.

"Is that what you call it?" said the streetwise little urchin, flashing a
practised grin. "Come on then."

As we went out I looked back. In the dim recesses I could just make out the
hulking figure of Cedric talking, or rather being talked to, by the slimmer
one of Sam. From the body language, Sam was very much in charge.

It felt fresher, in spite of the petrol fumes and tired London air, when we
stepped onto the pavement. As we did so, though, there was a screech of
tyres and a police car pulled up, followed by another, and then a plain
van.

"Shit," said Andy. "The filth. I'm outta here." He shot off up the road
leaving me standing.

Kids were streaming out of the Arcade as the Police went in. They ignored
anyone who looked young but fastened on to any adult. I saw Cedric
struggling in the grasp of two policemen but it needed a third to finally
bring him to a standstill.

Charlie clambered out of the second car. "Better make it look legit," he
said to me as he put an arm lock on me and hustled me into the van.

"Make sure you get Sam," I said. "Tall, spotty lad, looks young enough to
be one of the kids."

But, when we got to the nick and everything was sorted out, it seemed that
Sam had been missed and had slipped out with the rest of the kids. Someone
wasn't going to be pleased about that.

In fact Inspector Haskins was fairly livid about the whole situation. He
had me and Charlie in an interview room and complained loudly that, on the
strength of my earlier phone call to Charlie they'd picked up Dave
MacMillan.

"I was probably wrong about that," I admitted.

"You tell that to MacMillan," said Haskins and told a young Police
Constable to bring the angry Arcade owner in.

 He came in still loudly protesting his innocence, proclaiming that he
thought the prostitution of young boys to be repellent. It was certainly
not the sort of thing he did. "What's he doing here?" he asked, when he'd
run out of steam and was able to notice his surroundings. "He's an
interfering little swine. Got it in for me because I made a pass at him
once."

"Mr Silvain backs you up," said Haskins drily. "He doesn't think you had
anything to do with the vice ring."

"It was just that Cedric was obviously involved, and because he was your
doorman at Gracey's, I naturally assumed you were involved. Now I think he
was working for Sam."

MacMillan exploded with wrath. "Sam? Sam! That spotty-faced useless
wimp. Couldn't organise a piss-up in a brewery."

"That's what he wanted you to think," I said. "All the evidence is on the
computer. I assume you've got some experts who can get into it."

Haskins nodded.

"I hope you'll wipe the stuff on me," I said.

"I wish I could get my hands on Sam and Cedric," said MacMillan, still
fuming. "I'd teach them to start being entrepreneurs in my business."

"Cedric has been charged and will come to Court," said
Haskins. "Unfortunately Sam seems to have slipped away. We'll get him
though, never fear."

MacMillan smiled - it wasn't a pleasant sight. "I think I'm more likely to
find him, what with the contacts I've got."

I didn't say anything but I thought that Sam would probably prefer to take
the consequences of his crimes in a Court of Law rather than take that
meted out by MacMillan with his own form of justice. I almost could see him
lying in an alley with two broken legs.

* * * * * *

I got back to the flat, hoping that Paul would have returned, but there was
no one there - not even Zack.

And a few of our belongings were missing too. Not many, not really
important, a bottle of aftershave, not my favourite. A photograph in a
silver frame - of me. A designer shirt belonging to Paul.

So much for being a Good Samaritan. I'd know better in future.

* * * * * *

Started: 4, Wednesday June, 2003 6:01 pm
Words: 9,408