Harry Oldham is writing a novel based on his criminal and sordid past. To do so, he has returned to live at Park Hill, where he grew up, and the place that he once left behind. That was then and this is now, in which the old world collides with the new. (Parts 1 to 21 are available to read in the menu)

Perfectly Hard and Glamorous – Part 22

March 1985

If Billy Mason knew everything that happened in Sheffield, then Frank Smith knew even more. That was frightening.

“Now is not the time to pull out.”

“I mean it, Frank,” I said. “We’re done. It doesn’t matter what you say or do. It’s too late.”

We sat around June’s kitchen table with mugs of tea. Frank and June faced us while a lanky CID copper loitered in the doorway. I drummed my fingers on the plastic tablecloth and waited.

Frank picked up a custard cream and nibbled it.

“Alright,” he said. “Billy’s cottoned onto your deviances, but that doesn’t change our arrangement.”

“Except Billy knows we’ve been in contact,” I said. “And it won’t be long before the Rufus Gang know too.”

Frank lit a John Player Special and slid the packet across the table. Paolo had noticed that Frank always smoked when he was thinking. We sat in silence.

June looked sympathetic, but the crease in her forehead told me we weren’t going to like what came next. Paolo bit his lip and rested a nervous hand on my leg.

Frank finally spoke.

“All I ask is that you work tomorrow night. That’s it. After that, it’s over.”

“No,” I said immediately. “We’re not doing it.”

“Well,” he replied calmly, “things might look bleak for you, Harry. Less so for Paolo. Do as I ask and you both walk away.”

He paused.

“But…”

“There’s always a fucking but, Frank.”

“If you refuse, I’ll have no choice but to tell Paolo’s parents.”

“You bastard.”

He shrugged. “It’s not too much to ask.”

Paolo’s hand tightened painfully around my leg. His greatest fear was that his parents would discover the truth about him. Frank knew it.

Blackmail again.

We both understood there was no real choice.

“Just do your stuff and give me the details afterwards,” Frank said. “Names. What they got up to.”

The evidence he’d gathered must have filled a dozen notebooks, yet nothing ever seemed to happen.

“Mind you,” he added with a smirk, “I’m not sure what you’re going to tell the Rufus Gang. Looks like you’ll be going to ground when they come after you. Fuck me, Harry—everyone’s going to have it in for you.”

I already knew that.

“The thing is,” he went on, “the gaffers are starting to lean on me. Especially with this AIDS business kicking off. I hope you’ve both been careful.”

We hadn’t. We’d never even thought about it.

“Oh, my poor loves!” June said softly. “You must be careful. Best you stop now.”

“Fucking queers. Hope it wipes the lot of you out.”

The lanky copper had spoken for the first time.

I’d always assumed my early death would come from a fight or some stupid mistake. AIDS felt distant, unreal—something that happened to other people.

“We have to go,” Frank said, standing.

Paolo spoke quietly.

“Isn’t there something you want to say to us, Frank?”

Frank paused at the door.

“Yeah,” he said. “You’re right. The fucking miners’ strike is over.”

Then he walked out with the other copper.

*****

The waiting’s over, in shock they stare and cue fanfare

The house stood on the edge of the city overlooking the moors. More mansion than house. Flash cars lined the courtyard.

Someone said it had once belonged to a steel magnate. Now it was owned by a man building a retail empire.

Our final gig was going to be the most extravagant yet.

A DJ had set up beneath a row of spotlights. Frankie Goes to Hollywood blasted through the room while beautiful young boys in skimpy shorts carried trays of drinks among the well-heeled guests.

“You might find yourselves a rich sugar daddy tonight.”

Our minder Kenny surveyed the room with amusement. He was built like a tank and clearly capable of handling trouble.

We were taken into an adjoining room where two blond lads were already undressing.

“Are you the Sheffield boys?” one asked.

The rule of Park Hill was not to answer straight away. I simply nodded.

“Mikey,” he said, offering his hand. “This is Joey. We’re Manchester boys.”

It was rare to see lads our age.

I dropped my battered Adidas bag on the sofa.

Paolo wandered over to a silver statuette of a naked boy and examined it closely—his usual trick when he didn’t want to talk to strangers.

“Been doing this long?” Joey asked.

“Too long,” I said. “But this is the last time.”

Mikey and Joey exchanged looks.

“Good luck with that,” Mikey said. “Nobody walks away from Ronnie Rufus.”

We’d heard the stories: ruthless money-making, nobody crossing them.

The DJ burst into the room.

“Hi-energy tonight,” he announced. “Same format, no set list. I’m meant to wind them up until they turn into animals. Fifteen minutes.”

I cracked open the door and peered through.

The room was packed.

Joey stood behind me, watching too.

“See that bloke?” he whispered, pointing to a lonely figure. “Used to be straight.”

“Did he?”

“Apparently, he and his mates tried a Ouija board one night. Next thing he’s a raging homosexual.”

I laughed.

“He reckons a ghost penetrated him and he liked it.”

“Let’s hope the ghost leaves me alone.”

Joey pointed again.

“Recognise the guy in the flowery shirt?”

I shook my head.

“That’s Bobby Blue. TV chat show host. But the rest—professors, teachers, vicars, company bosses, yuppies with too much money.”

I was a council-estate lad. It was strange to think men like this had come to watch four working-class boys behave badly.

Mikey and Joey opened the show.

We watched through the crack in the door as they danced, warming the crowd.

“What are we going to do?” Paolo whispered.

“Nothing else for it,” I said. “We go on like always.”

“And then it’s finished?”

“Yeah. We leave tonight and cut all contact.”

Paolo slipped his arms around me.

“Do you think they’ll leave us alone?”

I already knew the answer.

“No,” I said. “We’ll probably have to disappear for a while.”

Our set was meant to be the centrepiece.

We followed Mikey and Joey onto the floor. Afterwards they’d have time to recover—cigarettes, drinks, a breather—before returning.

We wouldn’t.

Until then we danced.

We touched each other, teased the crowd, played to the music. By the time Evelyn Thomas hit her pounding climax I was inside Paolo, holding back so it looked real.

The real thing came later—for anyone willing to pay twenty quid.

The music stopped abruptly.

“Five minutes each!” the DJ shouted. “Hand your money to the little chicken and form a queue.”

The lights dropped. Music roared back.

Spotlights fixed on us.

For a moment nobody moved.

Then one man stepped forward and handed over a twenty-pound note.

Others followed.

After that everything dissolved.

Hands dragged me in every direction. Bodies pressed against me. I was twisted, pinned, shoved onto a table.

Pain spread through my back and legs.

Across the room I saw the others struggling too. Paolo was taking the worst of it. His slim frame was no match for the men pulling at him. Tears streamed down his face.

Then something cracked across my back.

A whip.

Pain exploded through me.

Again.

Cheers from the crowd.

Again—across my back, then my arse.

Kenny shouted for them to stop, trying to pull people away.

Too late.

The room spun.

I saw Paolo—wide-eyed, terrified—shouting my name.

Then blue lights flashed through the windows.

Sirens screamed closer.

And everything went black.

*****

Because these stardust memories fail to please

“He needs to go to hospital,” the ambulance man said.

I came round inside the ambulance.

“Nah,” said the lanky copper from June’s house. “He’s coming with us.”

“But he needs treatment.”

The copper ignored him.

“Where’s Frank?” I asked.

“Two weeks in Torremolinos.”

Of course he was.

The copper—who said his name was Ian—threw my clothes at me.

“Get dressed.”

The ambulance man handed me water.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Back to the nick.”

“And Paolo?”

“Locked up with the rest.”

Frank had sold us out. The moment he realised we were quitting; he’d arranged the raid.

Once dressed, I was handcuffed and pushed into a police car.

At the station the custody sergeant looked up.

“And Harry’s here for what reason?”

Ian recited the charges.

“Contravening the Sexual Offences Act 1956. Gross indecency. Public decency offences. Age of consent violations. Assault occasioning actual bodily harm. Living on the earnings of prostitution.”

The sergeant raised his eyebrows.

“Cell two.”

Ian dragged me down the corridor and kicked me hard before throwing me inside.

That was when I knew I’d reached the bottom.

My body hurt, but the shame hurt more.

I had probably lost my friends, my family, and any future I thought I had.

And prison still waited.

The cell held a wooden platform and a filthy toilet.

A blanket was tossed in before the door slammed shut.

The hatch opened seconds later. Ian looked in.

“You lot fucking disgust me.”

Then it slammed shut again.

I hardly slept.

The next morning, I was taken to the Magistrates’ Court, where a duty solicitor listened as I told him everything.

“You must plead not guilty,” he said. “When this goes to Crown Court we’ll argue entrapment. A good barrister will try to shame the police.”

He paused.

“But I must warn you—cases involving homosexuals aren’t going well now. There’s mass hysteria about AIDS.”

I noticed he had called me a homosexual.

I followed his advice and was released on police bail.

Walking hurt. I considered a taxi until I remembered my money had been in the bag left behind the night before.

The police station was miles out of town.

So, I walked home.

It took two hours.