Tag Archives: Fiction

Shadows of Verona: Better That You Leave

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Via delle Argonne is a pleasant street, largely made up of fashionable apartments for Verona’s young professionals and a step up from the area where Signora Bruschi’s house lies. It was also a short cut to the hotel where Bianchi worked part-time.

Cola had spent the day moping around. Cinzia had been working and he was reduced to wandering between floors without any real notion of what he wanted to do. I had been writing in the shade offered by the balcony, only to be interrupted every half hour by Cola’s footsteps and his inevitable appearance beside me. He would slump into the same chair and rest his feet on the railings. A few minutes later he would wander off again.

When the light began to fade, he suggested that we walk to Hotel Italia and meet Bianchi as he finished his shift. Not so long ago, he would have jumped into that bright yellow Abarth 500 and been there within minutes. Now he seemed to regard the walk as the highlight of his day.

“I need to get a job,” he moaned as we strolled down Via delle Argonne, parked cars lining both sides. “I am going slowly mad with boredom.”

A little girl came out of a gateway riding a small scooter. She came to an abrupt halt when she noticed us. Then she turned around and shot back inside to the safety of the small yard, shielded by horse chestnuts and linden trees.

I felt sorry for Cola.

His life had been turned upside down by Sandro’s revelation that it was in his best interests to leave Signor Valenti’s employment. Cola was certain that he would land a warehouse job at Interporto Quadrante Europa. He had turned up for the interview only to be told that they couldn’t employ him without suitable references. He wasn’t in a position to ask Signor Valenti and, as I pointed out, the Agenzia delle Entrate would have no record of his employment because Cola had been paid cash in hand.

“The mighty have fallen on hard times,” Cola lamented.

“But you have somewhere to live and a mother who feeds you well.”

It was no consolation to him.

The street light hanging above the intersection with Via Rovereto flickered on.

“And in two weeks you will be leaving Verona,” Cola complained.

I regarded Cola as a little brother. I had watched him grow from boy to man. I was someone he loved and trusted. I would miss him when I went back to the UK.

We waited on the curb to allow three motor scooters to pass. They came to a halt at the crossroads and hesitated as though deciding which direction they should take. The small engines puttered; the riders looked at us, their faces hidden behind the visors of their crash helmets. One by one they killed their engines and lowered the scooters onto their kickstands.

Then they walked towards us.

“Mannaggia,” Cola muttered under his breath. “I knew this would happen.”

Perhaps I knew it too.

There was always going to be a leader. He turned out to be the tallest of them, a muscular man wearing a turquoise T-shirt. He had a metal chain wrapped around his wrist; so did the others, for that matter.

When they reached us, the leader flicked his wrist and unravelled the chain in one swift movement. He swung it at Cola, who tried to duck but was too slow. It caught him on the side of the head and immediately drew blood.

I tried to help Cola but was prevented by an equally forceful blow. One of the other riders swung his chain and smashed it against my cheek.

And then there were repeated metal links whipping through the air with a high-pitched metallic rattle.

Cola was on the floor trying to protect his face, but there was no mercy. I followed and ended up on my back. Blurred silver arcs cut through the light, the links catching the glare. My clothes were being ripped. There was the sudden shock of heavy impact crushing bone and muscle, followed by the cold, biting pinches of metal links wrapped tightly around skin.

And then it was over.

A haze through which I could see nothing clearly.

Blood splatter.

Stinging pain.

Nausea.

Moans and sobs, but whose were they?

I knew that the three riders had returned to their motor scooters, kick-started them and sped away.

I did not think that I would die. It was that I wanted to die.

And then came the two-tone sirens that I had come to recognise across European cities. I found them reassuring. Not like those wailing noises that the UK had adopted from the States.

They were coming for us.

I woke up in a brightly lit room, which hurt the one eye that I was able to see with. The swelling on the other had closed it shut.

Somebody was holding my hand and I had to turn my head to see who it was.

It was the face of an angel.

An angel with beautiful curly black hair, warm eyes that were teary, and a delicate nose. The angel had soft stubble on his chin and needed to shave.

The angel smiled.

“You are going to be fine,” Bianchi whispered.

But behind the angel was the devil, slouched in a chair.

A nurse walked into the room and noticed that I was awake.

“Fuori tutti,” came the instruction.

Bianchi and Lorenzo did as they were told.

Bianchi waved on the way out. Lorenzo nodded and muttered something.

“Ci vendicheremo.”

We will get revenge.

The nurse checked my blood pressure and stuck something inside my ear.

“Sei inglese?”

When I nodded, it hurt, as though something were banging around inside my head.

“You will live,” she said. “You are very lucky. A lot of cuts and bruises, but you will mend. You were sedated when you came in, so you will feel woozy.”

“And my friend?”

“He will also live,” she smiled. “But he has a broken arm that will take time to mend.”

Police officers came to interview me in the afternoon and asked me to provide a description of our attackers. I narrowed it down to every male who rode a scooter in Verona and wasn’t much help.

And then they asked about Signora Valenti.

I told them very little and was informed that I wasn’t being helpful by refusing to tell the truth.

I found out later that Bianchi couldn’t hold his shit.

He had already told the Carabinieri and the Polizia di Stato everything that had happened. He wanted to put the blame entirely on the Valenti family.

But not at first.

When Bianchi arrived home from work on the night of the attack, he found Signora Bruschi in a panic.

“Bianchi. Something terrible has happened. They have called from Ospedale Borgo Trento where Cola and Miles have been taken.”

Bianchi immediately called Cinzia and the three of them arrived to find that we were being treated in the Pronto Soccorso. They waited for six hours before being told to come back in the morning, when they would be allowed to visit.

Bianchi then telephoned his brother and accused him of being involved in the attack. After all, even if it wasn’t true, Lorenzo blamed me for taking Bianchi away from the family home.

Lorenzo denied any knowledge.

“Te lo giuro su mia madre!”

He turned up at Signora Bruschi’s and was told about Cola leaving his job with Alessandro Valenti and my having turned down Valentina Valenti’s offer of work.

Much to Bianchi’s surprise, Lorenzo listened patiently and became convinced that the Valenti family was responsible.

He brushed aside protests from Cinzia and Bianchi and vowed to get revenge. Lorenzo was no match for them, they said. But Lorenzo liked Cola, less so me, and he was also fearful for his little brother’s safety.

Lorenzo joined them the next morning.

Only two visitors were allowed in each room. Signora Bruschi and Cinzia sat with Cola, leaving Lorenzo to join Bianchi in my room.

At least Lorenzo is warming to me, I told myself.

Signora Bruschi, Cinzia and Bianchi took turns visiting each of us. Cola appeared to be in much worse condition, but his mother thanked the Lord that there would be no long-term effects.

Shit! I thought later. I don’t have travel insurance.

In the evening, when everybody had left, a doctor visited and said that we would both spend a few days in hospital before being allowed to go home. It was a precaution and would allow us to get the necessary rest.

He left me alone and told me to sleep.

As I was about to drop off, I was visited by Sandro, the handsome Carabiniere, who had started the night shift. He had seen Cola already, and I asked how he was.

“I have known Cola for a long time and he is headstrong. Don’t be surprised if he walks through the door at any moment.”

Sandro paused. He sat down in the chair that Bianchi had occupied for most of the day.

“How are you? I am sorry and feel responsible for what happened.”

“Do you think that it was the Valentis who were behind it?”

“Almost certainly, but it was only a warning.”

“A warning?”

“The Valentis are clever people. When Cola quit his job and you turned down an offer of work, they immediately became suspicious as to the reasons why. They realise that the Carabinieri will be behind it and will leave nothing to chance.”

I seemed to be caught up in a mafia story. The painful injuries reminded me that I wasn’t dreaming.

But, I thought, Sandro was extremely handsome.

I knew then that I was already on the mend.

“Your fiancée is very lucky.”

It was a poor attempt to flirt with Sandro, and he brushed it aside.

“It was a warning for you both to say nothing to anyone. If they thought that you had already done so, then the situation would be far more serious.”

“What do you mean?”

“You would both be dead. But that would attract too much attention.”

“That might be too late,” I told him. “Bianchi has told me that we have already featured on RAI news and ANSA.”

“But it will soon be yesterday’s news.”

“Will you arrest them?”

“There is no evidence to do so and, if I can say it politely, you are both insignificant and not worth jeopardising our investigations. Better to let things die down and be forgotten.”

I laughed.

It was almost a relief that things would not escalate further. I longed for the peace and quiet and comfort of Signora Bruschi’s home.

But Sandro hadn’t finished.

“I understand that you are returning to England.”

“Yes,” I replied, although I wasn’t certain that I would be fit enough.

“Then make sure that you do,” he warned. “It is better that you leave.”

The David Problem: Notes from a Life

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A Better Story

Murder had played an unexpectedly large part in David’s life. Not because he had murdered anyone—he hadn’t even come close—but because he enjoyed telling people about the occasions when he had very nearly been murdered himself. As the years passed the stories acquired new details, sharper dialogue, darker motives. Each retelling nudged them a little further from the truth until even David struggled to remember where fact ended and invention began. He had discovered that almost any story improved if murder was lurking just off the page.

The first attempt on David’s life, if it could be called that, happened when he was fifteen and at Harrow.

By then his sexual inclinations were no secret. They had earned him plenty of abuse, but they also gave him a certain currency. Hormonal boys were inventive when privacy was scarce, and David, more curious than ashamed, was often willing to oblige. It was a contradiction he understood only years later: the same boys who mocked him in daylight often sought him out after lights-out.

For a long time he toyed with writing a novel set during those years. The Edwardian public-school romances had always struck him as curiously bloodless, as though adolescence consisted entirely of cricket, Latin and noble sacrifice. His version would be rather different. His boys listened to the Boomtown Rats and John Peel on Radio 1, smoked where they shouldn’t, and discovered one another in darkened dormitories after the masters had gone to bed. It would have been a scandalous book, especially as David himself had been expelled only weeks later. Better, perhaps, that it remained unwritten.

Harrow still clung to customs that belonged to another century. Boys leaving the school grounds were expected to wear full uniform and touch their hats to passing adults. David found the ritual faintly ridiculous. Rules, after all, acquired their greatest attraction once they were forbidden.

He waited until the evening bill had been taken and supper was over. After lock-up, when nobody was supposed to leave the building, he slipped into civvies, climbed the wall at the edge of the grounds and disappeared into the darkness beyond. October had stripped the evenings of warmth, and beneath the heavy oaks and sycamores that crowned the hill he could move almost unseen.

The escapade itself was childish. Getting back in was the dangerous part. It depended on the loyalty of the other boys, who envied his nocturnal excursions even if they had little interest in accompanying him. Nobody informed. To dob in another boy was to spoil the game for everyone. If he had been caught, the punishment would probably have been a few strokes of the cane—a prospect David found less alarming than he cared to admit.

When he finally crept back into his room, there were always faces waiting in the darkness.

“Well?”

The truth was usually disappointing. Harrow on the Hill was remarkably uneventful after dark, looking much like any other sleepy English suburb. But that hardly mattered. David had already begun to understand that the adventure itself was never as satisfying as the story told afterwards.

David often visited the washrooms at the underground station on College Road. Someone had told him it was where people like him eventually ended up. He rarely found anyone of interest. This time there was an older boy, probably in his late teens, pretending to take a piss. David fancied him immediately: tall, fair-haired, slim, with the easy build of someone who played sport. He knew at once why the boy was there.

David felt the familiar surge of excitement. He busied himself by tucking his shirt into his trousers for the third time, then crouched to retie a shoelace that didn’t need tying. The older boy glanced around before slipping into one of the cubicles. David followed without hesitation.

The cubicle wasn’t what he’d imagined. It reeked of piss and shit, and the floor was ankle-deep in sodden toilet paper. It was enough to puncture the fantasy.

“How old are you?” the boy asked, pinning David against the back of the door.

“Eighteen,” David lied.

The boy thrust his tongue into David’s mouth. His breath tasted of cheap fags and Mars Bars.

David had waited a long time for this moment.

Then something gave way inside him.

He opened his eyes and found himself staring at the graffiti on the wall. Names. Telephone numbers. Obscenities. He suddenly didn’t want the boy touching him. He shoved him backwards. For a split second he thought the boy might hit him. Instead, David fumbled with the lock, yanked the door open and bolted from the cubicle. Seconds later he was out of the station and running.

He ran most of the way back to school, stopping only once to make sure he wasn’t being followed. The street behind him was empty. He realised he had been frightened. More than that, he was furious with himself for making such a fool of himself.

He scrambled over the school wall, knowing that once he was inside he would be safe. But in his haste he mistimed the drop on the other side and crashed into a stack of bricks piled beneath it. Pain shot through his knee. When he looked down he saw that his jeans had ripped. He touched the tear and his hand came away covered in blood.

“Shit.”

He limped back to Bradbys and slipped in through a fire door he had wedged open earlier. The room he shared with Gilles was on the top floor, and by the time he reached it his knee was throbbing.

As expected, Gilles was in bed reading a paperback by the light of a torch. David was still out of breath. When Gilles shone the torch at him, it was obvious he’d been crying.

“What on earth has happened?” Gilles demanded.

“Somebody tried to murder me,” David said.

He hadn’t meant to lie. It was simply that the story sounded better than the truth.

So he told Gilles about the man who had lured him back to a room near the station and held a Swiss Army knife to his throat. During the struggle, the blade had caught David’s knee before he somehow managed to break free.

“You mustn’t tell anyone,” he said.

The following morning David visited Matron to have the wound dressed. He explained that he had fallen while running down the stairs. She listened patiently, although the look on her face suggested she had heard rather better lies from schoolboys over the years.

After that, the story escaped him.

By the end of breakfast David was the talk of the school. Gilles had never been capable of keeping a secret. Boys stopped David in corridors and on staircases, eager to hear about his brush with death.

“It was nothing,” David said with studied modesty. “The man told me he was going to kill me, but I fought him off and got away. Just don’t tell anyone.”

Over the following days the tale grew with each retelling. The knife became longer. The struggle more violent. The escape more miraculous. Every version won him a little more admiration, especially from boys who had barely noticed him before.

By an extraordinary coincidence, events beyond the school gates began to lend David’s invention an air of credibility.

One evening he returned to his room to find Gilles waving a copy of Harrow Midweek.

“Listen to this,” he shouted excitedly.

He read aloud.

“We are aware of certain incidents in the Harrow area. People have been threatened—one involving a knife—and several have been assaulted. In June and August, the ‘Gay Ripper’ stabbed two men to death in their homes in Enfield and Kingston.”

Gilles lowered the newspaper and stared at David.

“That might have been you.”

David merely shrugged, although not without a flicker of guilt.

It never occurred to him that a story of this magnitude might eventually reach the masters. Had anyone believed it, the police would almost certainly have been called, leaving David with some awkward explanations to make.

But there were signs that the staff had already decided exactly what it was: another elaborate schoolboy fantasy.

One afternoon David was crossing the quad when his English master, Mr Potts—a bearded man known to generations of boys as Caractacus Potts—called him over.

“I hear you’ve been making up stories, David.”

He paused just long enough for David to wonder whether he was in trouble.

“Very entertaining,” Mr Potts said with a smile. “Perhaps you should think about writing a book.”

Decades later, David would tell the story again. The knife had become sharper, the struggle longer, and the escape even narrower. He had long since forgotten where the truth ended and the story began. But whenever he reached the part about the Swiss Army knife, people always leaned forward. And that, he decided, was what really mattered. 

The Novel That Outlived Its Author

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E.M. Forster spent much of his life hiding a part of himself.

In a diary entry from 1964 he wrote:

‘I should have been a more famous writer if I had written or rather published more, but sex has prevented the latter’.

Between 1905 and 1910 he published four novels—Where Angels Fear to Tread, The Longest Journey, A Room with a View and Howards End. By the time A Passage to India appeared in 1924, Forster had grown weary of writing about marriage and the relationships between men and women. It would be the last novel published during his lifetime.

Instead, his imagination increasingly turned towards relationships between men. He wrote stories that explored same-sex desire but refused to publish them, convinced that the world in which he lived was not ready for them.

His novel Maurice finally appeared in 1971, a year after his death. It tells the story of Maurice Hall, whose love affair with his Cambridge friend Clive Durham ultimately gives way to a deeper relationship with the young gamekeeper Alec Scudder. Defying class prejudice, social convention and the threat of blackmail, the novel ends not in tragedy but in hope.

Forster wrote Maurice in 1913–14, yet he could never quite let it go. He revised the manuscript in 1932 and again between 1952 and 1960, repeatedly reworking the ending while remaining determined that the lovers should find happiness.

It is difficult not to wonder whether Maurice became the life that Forster wished he might have lived himself.

While at Cambridge he was infatuated with Hugh Owen Meredith, who is widely believed to have inspired the character of Clive. He was also drawn to working-class men and, in 1930, began a relationship with the London policeman Bob Buckingham that lasted for forty years. During his travels abroad he formed other relationships, reportedly experiencing sex for the first time with a soldier on an Egyptian beach when he was thirty-eight.

In 1970, the biographer P. N. Furbank observed:

“He achieved physical sex very late, and found it easier with people outside his own social class; and it remained a kind of private magic for him – an almost unattainable blessing, for which another person was mainly a pretext.”

The executor of Forster’s estate was Professor W. J. H. Sprott of Nottingham University, best known for translating Sigmund Freud’s New Introductory Lectures on Psycho-Analysis. Among Forster’s papers he discovered the manuscript of Maurice, together with the unfinished novel Arctic Summer, largely written in 1911, which also explored homosexual themes.

There were also a number of short stories written between 1903 and 1958. Published posthumously in 1972, only two had appeared during Forster’s lifetime; the remainder were either overtly homoerotic or explicitly gay stories that would almost certainly have been considered indecent by contemporary standards.

Within his closest circle, Forster made little attempt to conceal his sexuality. He shared successive drafts of Maurice with trusted friends including Siegfried Sassoon, Lytton Strachey, Edward Carpenter, Christopher Isherwood, Xiao Qian and Forrest Reid.

Beyond that circle, however, he was intensely guarded.

In 1962, John Bayley wrote in The Guardian that “the homosexual themes underlie all his novels.”

Forster replied:

“Are you aware that homosexuality is still a criminal offence, and any public implication of it therefore objectionable.”

As Kate Symondson notes on the British Library website, Forster was only sixteen when Oscar Wilde was sentenced in 1895 to two years’ hard labour—the maximum penalty—for homosexual acts. It was a warning that stayed with him for the rest of his life.

The dangers faced by Maurice and Alec were not merely fictional. They reflected the laws, prejudices and fears that shaped Forster’s own existence.

Only in 1967, with the passing of the Sexual Offences Act, were private homosexual acts between men over the age of twenty-one decriminalised in England and Wales. By then Forster was eighty-eight years old, and the novel that had meant so much to him still remained unpublished.

E.M. Forster (1879-1970)

The Loom of Youth: Was it Really That Shocking?

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Image:  Old Shirburnian Society

“Thus began a friendship entirely different from any Gordon had known before. He did not know what his real sentiments were; he did not even attempt to analyse them. He only knew that when he was with Morcombe he was indescribably happy. There was something in him so natural, so unaffected, so sensitive to beauty. After this Morcombe came up to Gordon’s study nearly every evening, and usually Foster left them alone together, and went off in search of Collins.

“Indeed this friendship, coupled with his admiration for Ferrers, was all that kept Gordon from wild excesses during the dark December days and the drear opening weeks of the Easter term. During the long morning hours, when Gordon was supposed to be reading history, more than once there came over him a wish to plunge himself into the feverish waters of pleasure, and forget for a while the doubts and disappointments that overhung everything in his life. At times he would sit in the big window-seat, when the school was changing class-rooms, and as he saw the sea of faces, some big, some small, who had drifted with the stream, and had soon forgotten early resolutions and principles in the conveniently broadminded atmosphere of a certain side of Public School Life, he realised how easily he could slip into that life and be engulfed. No one would mind; his position would be the same, no one would think worse of him. Unless, of course, he was caught. Then probably everyone would turn round upon him; that was the only unforgivable sin – to be found out. But it was rarely that anyone was caught; and the descent was so easy. In his excitement he might perhaps forget a little.”

I have never quite understood what all the fuss was about.

When The Loom of Youth by Alec Waugh was published in 1917, it provoked a minor literary scandal.

Written when Waugh was just seventeen and a half, the novel is both a realistic and romantic portrait of the early twentieth-century British public school system. Through its protagonist, Gordon Caruthers, he explores the complex social hierarchies, academic pressures and personal relationships that shape life at the fictional Fernhurst School.

The novel broke long-standing Victorian taboos by acknowledging the romantic and homosexual attachments that could develop between schoolboys, although by modern standards its treatment is remarkably restrained.

Indeed, the two passages reproduced above are about the only real indication that Gordon Caruthers and his fellow pupil, Morcombe, shared anything approaching a romantic attachment.

Contemporary reviews were, for the most part, favourable, though many cautiously skirted around the subject, resorting to euphemisms such as “immorality”, “decadence”, “sentimental relations” and “unhealthy” adolescent behaviour.

The fiercest opposition came not from the literary press but from conservative periodicals, educational journals and coordinated letter-writing campaigns organised by public school authorities, who regarded the novel as a damaging attack on their institutions.

Waugh depicted a world in which schoolboys cheated, schoolmasters were often out of touch, and both could become easy targets for the casual cruelties of adolescence.

He also challenged the Victorian conviction that team sports—particularly rugby and cricket—instilled the moral character and leadership required to govern the British Empire.

Then there was the schoolboy slang, which horrified many critics and parents, who dismissed the dialogue as vulgar, ungentlemanly and symptomatic of cultural decline.

As Waugh had himself been educated at Sherborne School in Dorset, the school quickly recognised itself as the model for Fernhurst and regarded the novel as a profound betrayal. By exposing the realities of life inside one of England’s elite public schools, Waugh opened institutions that had long been shielded from public scrutiny and, in the process, stirred anxiety among parents and former pupils alike.

Sherborne believed it had little choice but to expel him from its old boys’ association, the Old Shirburnian Society.

Reading it today, it is difficult to see what so alarmed its detractors. What once seemed a shocking exposé now reads as an unusually perceptive, and surprisingly tender, account of adolescence. 

The David Problem: Notes from a Life

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The 19.24 from Penzance

London. Summertime. The sun blazed and the city baked.

For weeks David had been bracing himself for the Wilhelm von Gloeden exhibition at the McDonald Gallery. He had written notes for the sixty photographs on display, along with an agonisingly long biography of the German photographer for the catalogue.

Now it was opening night. His work was done, and as he strolled along the Strand he felt an unfamiliar sense of relief. All that remained was to survive the evening. He hated social gatherings and would much rather have been sharing a quiet drink with Joshua.

Joshua, however, thrived on occasions like this. He would work the room, dropping discreet hints that he was an emerging force in the contemporary art world, and leave with a pocketful of phone numbers and invitations. David, inevitably, would be expected to accompany him.

His own intention was to remain firmly in the background.

He had already instructed the exhibition’s curator, an American called Nathaniel Wilson, not to mention his presence. David wrote under a pen name and was determined to keep his identity hidden. He had even insisted that his name be removed from all the exhibition material.

Joshua had also insisted on bringing Freddie.

As they approached the gallery, Freddie stopped in his tracks.

“They’ve shot the elephant,” he announced solemnly, “and now there’s a dead elephant in the road.”

Freddie claimed to see the dead.

“Fuck me,” David muttered. “That’s all we need.”

The McDonald Gallery was new. Its owner had installed enormous glass windows and joked that they allowed those without invitations to see exactly what they were missing. David hoped they wouldn’t see too much. Von Gloeden’s photographs were bound to provoke controversy.

His heart sank when he spotted Pamela Hutchinson standing just inside the entrance.

He had warned Nathaniel not to invite her. The warning had been ignored.

David slipped past her and leaned towards Nathaniel.

“She’s a fucking do-gooder,” he whispered.

Nathaniel merely smiled. The New Yorker possessed an enviable ability to brush off negativity. David, by contrast, briefly entertained the idea of punching Pamela in the face before remembering that doing so would rather compromise his anonymity.

They had arrived fashionably late. The gallery was already crowded with people balancing glasses of expensive wine and conducting earnest conversations. The art had become secondary.

David excused himself and wandered over to the photographs he had spent weeks studying. They felt strangely familiar now, almost as though they belonged to him.

His favourite hung at the end of the room: Peppino Scavo, photographed in 1901, reclining nude beside the sea with his eyes closed, serene and oblivious to the camera preserving him for posterity.

“Beautiful,” said a voice behind him.

Another lecherous queen, David thought.

Even so, he found himself agreeing. He had expressed the same opinion countless times while preparing the catalogue notes, but always in private. Hearing someone else voice it left him oddly possessive of the exhibition.

“I’ve been told the notes were written by a famous author,” the man continued. “Any idea who? Hollingworth, perhaps. They have his style. If not him, I’d put money on Tóibín.”

David sighed inwardly.

If the man had done his homework, he would already have known exactly who had written them.

David checked his watch. Daniel should have arrived by now.

They had met on a nudist beach in Cornwall, where an awkward conversation about the paintings of Henry Scott Tuke had somehow blossomed into a friendship. David still winced at the memory of telling Daniel that he looked as though he had stepped out of one of Tuke’s canvases.

Their conversation had eventually turned to the von Gloeden exhibition, and David had invited him to London. The invitation had naturally included a bed at Cleaver Square. To David’s delight, Daniel had accepted and should have been on the 19.24 from Penzance. The 19.24 from Penzance, he thought. It sounded like the title of a crime novel.

His attention was drawn to Nathaniel and Joshua, who were talking to a tall young man with his back to him. There was something oddly familiar about him.

David threaded his way through the crowd.

“Owen,” he said, breaking into a smile.

The young man turned immediately.

“I was just chatting to my new neighbour,” Owen said, “and now the other one’s arrived. How are you, David?”

“New neighbour?”

“My grandmother left me her house, so I’ve decided to move in. At least for the time being.”

He meant the house next door, which had belonged to the Countess until her death a few months earlier.

David and Joshua had known Owen since he was a child and had always been the only neighbours to visit the family regularly. David was fond of the handsome young man, though he also knew about his unpredictable temper.

Approach with caution, he reminded himself.

“That’s wonderful,” David said. “But what brings you here?”

“A friend of a friend,” Owen shrugged. “I’m not convinced it’s really my sort of thing.”

Nathaniel’s eyes had already settled on Owen’s outfit.

“What a fantastic look,” he purred, admiring the suit worn over a plain white T-shirt. “You put the rest of us to shame. Come on, let me show you around. I’ll explain von Gloeden to you.”

He took Owen gently by the arm.

Owen glanced back at David as though asking to be rescued.

“There’s only one reason he wants to show him round,” Joshua murmured. “And I think we can all guess whose knickers he’d like to get into tonight.”

“Nathaniel can be remarkably shallow,” David replied.

At that moment Freddie appeared clutching a full bottle of wine. David glanced at the label—Domaine William Fèvre Chablis Grand Cru Les Clos—and suspected it cost more than he cared to imagine. Freddie had abandoned his crystal glass altogether and was drinking straight from the bottle.

“You’ll never guess who I’ve just seen,” he announced.

His voice had already risen several decibels.

“Please don’t get drunk,” Joshua sighed.

“Who’s drunk?” Freddie protested. “I’ve just seen Charles Dickens in the toilet.”

Several heads turned in their direction.

“Freddie, I would gladly kick you in the balls if it weren’t for the fact that you’re annoyingly handsome.”

David knew exactly how the evening would end. Before the exhibition was over, Freddie would have found someone willing to take a chance on him. The only uncertainty was whether he would sabotage his own good fortune by telling his latest conquest that Charles Dickens was standing behind them.

Only then did David notice Daniel.

The young man stood in the middle of the gallery, rucksack slung over one shoulder, quietly taking everything in.

David resisted the temptation to call across the room, I didn’t recognise you with your clothes on. It was a dreadful cliché, but also true. The last time they had met, Daniel had been sitting naked on Sunny Cove, hugging his knees against the sea breeze.

He realised there was one question he had never asked.

What had brought Daniel to a nudist beach in the first place?

Fully dressed, he looked broader than David remembered. His mousey hair had grown a little longer and a small stud glinted in one ear. Dressed like one of the skateboarders David often watched in Kennington Park, he looked entirely out of place among London’s art crowd.

Joshua, of course, had seen through everything.

On the drive back from Cornwall he had suggested, with infuriating accuracy, that David had taken a shine to him. Ever since, David had made a point of sounding carefully indifferent whenever Daniel’s name arose.

The irony was impossible to ignore.

Twenty years earlier David had written a novel about an older man who convinced himself that a much younger one was secretly in love with him. At the time he had never understood where the idea had come from.

Now, with some alarm, he recognised it.

He had become the man he’d invented.

At last Daniel spotted them and waved.

David pretended not to notice. Better to let Joshua take the lead.

“We’re glad you could make it,” Joshua said warmly.

“How are film studies?” David asked.

“They’re good. We’ve broken up for the summer now.”

“And who,” purred a familiar voice, “is this delightful creature?”

Nathaniel had evidently given up on Owen and returned with a new target.

Joshua made the introductions.

“So you’ve travelled all this way to see our exhibition,” Nathaniel said. “Tell me, are you familiar with von Gloeden?”

“Not at all.”

“Excellent. By the end of the evening you’ll be an authority. I trust you won’t be rushing straight back to Cornwall?”

“Daniel’s staying with us,” Joshua replied.

“And after that,” Daniel added, “I’m spending a few days in Henley-on-Thames with my girlfriend.”

The word landed like a punch.

David hoped his face betrayed nothing.

“We can all mourn the fantasy of what might have been,” Nathaniel laughed.

Joshua looked positively delighted.

When Nathaniel whisked Daniel away to deposit his rucksack in the cloakroom, Joshua turned to David.

“Feeling a bit bummed?”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Oh, get over it, David.”

As if matters weren’t bad enough, Pamela Hutchinson appeared.

“There you are,” she said. “I’ve been looking for you. No more hiding behind emails. At last I get to meet the writer in person.” She glanced around the gallery. “I notice your name is nowhere to be seen.”

“I’d rather the attention stayed on the photographs.”

“Or have you finally decided von Gloeden’s work really is pederastic?”

Fucking do-gooder, David thought.

Before he could reply, someone burst into song on the far side of the room.

“La da dee, la dee da…”

Pamela raised an eyebrow.

“I’d say somebody’s had rather too much to drink.”

Freddie.

Joshua hurried off to rescue the evening, eventually managing to shepherd him outside before he serenaded the entire gallery.

“If you’ll excuse me,” David said.

He escaped into the crowd, drifting through a succession of forgettable conversations before finding Daniel standing in front of another photograph. A glass of champagne rested in one hand, a smoked salmon blini in the other.

“Are these originals?” Daniel asked.

“Hardly. They’re modern prints. Even so, they’ll sell for a small fortune.”

“Do people really buy them?”

“More people than you’d imagine.”

Daniel smiled.

“And do you still think I stepped out of one of his photographs… the way you said I stepped out of that painter’s?”

“Tuke,” David reminded him.

The same mischievous smile.

David’s thoughts began to race.

Create some distance. Leave space. Find something else to occupy your mind. Half a loaf was better than none.

“You still haven’t answered.”

“What would you like me to say?”

“Nathaniel thinks I’d make a good male nude. Apparently he knows people in the film industry.”

David had encountered men like Nathaniel all his life. Charming. Persuasive. Always on the lookout for the next beautiful distraction.

But nobody could steal what had never belonged to you.

“Be careful of Nathaniel Wilson,” David said. “Men like him can be very persuasive. Stay close to Joshua and me instead. We’ll make sure you survive the evening. Besides…” He smiled. “What would your girlfriend have to say?”

He felt quietly pleased with himself.

The point had been made.

But Daniel was no longer the shy young man David had met on the beach. Somewhere over the past few weeks he had realised the effect he had on people and was perfectly content to let them compete for his attention.

“That’s funny,” Daniel said, grinning.

“That’s exactly what Nathaniel said about you.”

Daniel wasn’t choosing sides.

He seemed perfectly happy to sit on the fence and watch everyone else do the choosing.

Shadows of Verona – Where I Belong

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Cinzia had come up with the solution to a problem that Signora Bruschi had created. 

I slept with Cola while Bianchi slept alone in my bed.

Cola was now nineteen, tall and slim, and drove a bright yellow Abarth 500 that sounded loud, throaty and aggressive when he arrived back home in the early hours after spending the evening with Cinzia.

He had climbed into his own bed, almost forgetting that somebody had gatecrashed.

“I thought that the bed would be empty,” he teased. “I was certain that you would have crept upstairs to be with Bianchi.”

“And suffer the sharp tongue of your mother? Not likely. I half expected her to be sitting outside the door to make sure that we didn’t.”

Morning brought little relief. Cola’s room was much smaller than my apartment and the heat of the night had been unbearable. Neither had slept well. Cola kicked me to make sure that I was awake and whispered in my ear.

“It is time to get up. I must go and see Signor Valenti and would like you to come along with me.”

“Who is Signor Valenti?” I groaned.

“He is the man that I work for,” he explained, “and he will have a list of jobs that need doing.”

During the night I wondered whether Bianchi had explored my apartment. He had always been curious, the sort of boy who wanted to know everything. I hoped I hadn’t left anything incriminating lying around. Then I remembered the crumpled copy of Le Pénis beside my bed. I had little doubt he would have read it from cover to cover. 

“I’d expected to spend the day with Bianchi,” I muttered.

“That is not going to happen. Cinzia and Bianchi have arranged to go to the summer festival at Gardaland today and will not be back until late. Unfortunately, they do not have tickets for us and so we shall be left behind to drive one another crazy.”

I was disappointed.

“We must go to church,” Cola announced.

I pulled a face.

“Why?”

“I have things to confess.”

Cola burst out laughing and hit me hard on the arm. 

Bianchi was subdued at breakfast. He refused to eat or drink while he waited for his lift that would take him to Gardaland. He made polite conversation but his usual brightness had deserted him 

“Is everything okay, Bianchi?”

He nodded but didn’t reply.

I’m not sure why it is, but silence makes me feel uneasy. But when he held his gaze a moment longer than necessary, it suggested the problem might not have been with me.

We waited on the pavement for the arrival of his friend, Antonio, who, Cola had explained, was Bianchi’s best friend. 

He turned up in a noisy old Fiat Panda with Cinzia beside him.

Antonio was messy, with dark curly hair, soulful brown eyes, and a slightly crooked nose. He wore a worn-out denim jacket and football shirt sporting the blue and yellow of Hellas Verona. 

He got out of the car and kissed Bianchi on the cheek before hugging him tightly. Bianchi blushed.

Cinzia hurried them into the car.

“We shall see you this evening,” she called from the car window.

Bianchi waved as they drove off and soon afterwards sent a message on his phone.

I hoped we might have spent more time together today. Gardaland was Cinzia’s idea. We shall talk this evening.

Cola drove me to Torricelle in the hills north of Verona. I had once been here with Pietro and remembered the panoramic views of the Adige River and the city below. It was also where I saw one of the most beautiful sunsets. He blasted Sfera Ebbasta through the speakers, making conversation almost impossible. But he seemed proud to be taking me to see Signor Valenti.

“He is a very rich man and lives in a wonderful house in its own grounds. I have told him all about you.”

“How did you meet, and what is it that you do for him?”

“Oh, I work around his house and do jobs around the estate,” he replied. 

It all seemed an unlikely world for someone like Cola, and that he had not explained how he had met Signor Valenti had not gone unnoticed.

Away from the historic centre, the land turned green with olive groves, vineyards and lush vegetation. We climbed the hillside and eventually came to a set of stone pillars on the right. Cola spun off the road and dropped down a long winding driveway that was cast in deep shadow by a rich canopy of giant oak trees.

When we burst back into the sunlight it revealed a large house that seemed to be made up of adjoining boxes with floor-to-ceiling glass walls. Parked in front of it was another bright yellow Abarth 500 that was identical to the one that Cola drove.

As Cola parked beside it, I received a message on my phone. It was from Cinzia.

I have an idea. I shall speak with Cola’s mother tomorrow.

For the second time in 24 hours Cinzia had devised a solution to a problem. I grinned and Cola looked at me with bemusement.

“Why are you smiling?”

“I don’t know your girlfriend well, but I am starting to realise that she can be very cunning when she wants to be.”

I had the feeling that whoever lived inside this house would never enjoy the privacy that lesser folk in poorer houses enjoyed. The outside was everywhere you looked. 

The house felt strangely empty. Expensive homes often do. Every room had space to breathe, yet there was little evidence that anybody truly lived there. 

I longed for the comfort and simplicity of Signora Bruschi’s modest home. 

Cola led me through rooms that contained modern sofas and stylish chairs, sleek tables with contemporary sculpture and lots of fresh flowers in huge vases – but little else.

Signor Valenti looked like he was in his forties, with the first signs of grey showing in his black hair. He had once been handsome but still retained the trim figure of somebody who might once have been an athlete. He was smartly dressed with white chinos and an azure blue shirt and seemed stereotypical of the Italian businessman; casual but with a sense of importance.

A woman sat with him around a glass-topped table that had been set up outside. This, I presumed, was Signora Valenti who had once been a beautiful woman. She looked about the same age as her husband with long blonde hair that had been carefully tied back. 

“Nicola.” Signor Valenti seemed pleased to see Cola and gestured for us to be seated. A faint smile showed on Signora Valenti’s lips but she seemed uninterested in our arrival.

Cola poured coffee for us both and spoke in fluent Italian to his host – fast and furious and I had difficulty keeping up. Eventually, Signor Valenti turned towards me and offered his hand.

“I am delighted to meet you, Miles. Please call me Alessandro, and this is my wife, Valentina.” It had a ring to it – Valentina Valenti. “And that,” he nodded towards the swimming pool,” is my son Edoardo.”

A young man swam the length of it before coming to a stop. Only his head could be seen, his wet hair plastered back, as he treaded water. He looked at us with curiosity, but, like his mother, never uttered a word. I waved a greeting but Edoardo didn’t acknowledge it. He, too, it seemed, was devoid of pleasantries.

While Alessandro and Cola talked business, I enjoyed the view.

Finally, Valentina came to life.

“My husband owns everything that you see before you.”

“Impressive,” I replied.

“These are our vineyards and olive groves, and in the buildings to the right is where wine and olive oil is manufactured.”

The Valenti family enjoyed fabulous wealth.

“My husband is also a property developer and has a vast portfolio around Verona.”

Valentina spoke matter of factly, as though defending the reasons for their good fortune. It was as if she was trying to make a point. She put on large sunglasses and I could no longer tell whether she was looking at me or her son.

Cola had the habit of making me appear like somebody I wasn’t. In his eyes, I was unique, although he had no idea what it was that I wrote. 

“Nicola tells us that you are a writer,” she said with a little more warmth.

Alessandro and Cola left us and walked to the edge of the terrace. Alessandro pointed to various parts of his estate, and Cola nodded in understanding.

“Poor Cola is receiving a long list of jobs. It will keep him occupied for weeks which is exactly what my husband wants. And when those jobs are completed, he will give Cola another long list of things to do. Cola is your friend. But he is also Alessandro’s plaything.”

I didn’t quite understand.

“He enjoys having Cola around because he is everything that Edoardo is not. Cola is the son that he wanted. Edoardo is not. My son is spoiled and has no desire to work.”

Edoardo had climbed out of the pool and was rubbing himself down with a towel. I expected him to join us but he walked straight into the house with a scowl.

“Edoardo is jealous of Cola because he gets exactly the same privileges as he does. Edoardo does not consider that Cola works hard for what he gets, whilst he does little.”

“Where did your husband meet Cola?”

She brushed a hand through her hair.

“Oh, I do not know,” she sighed.

Alessandro and Cola disappeared onto the next garden terrace and now we were alone. Valentina flicked through Italian Vogue, not once stopping to read anything; the actions of a bored housewife. 

A WhatsApp message from Bianchi flashed up. It was a photograph from Gardaland – a selfie. Cinzia was grinning while Bianchi had his arm around his friend. They seemed to be enjoying themselves. 

Antonio was not conventionally handsome, but his grin was infectious; he looked happiest of all. 

“You are frowning, Miles,” said Valentina, without looking up from the magazine. 

“No, signora.”

“I would like you to send me some of your work.” It was a command rather than a request. 

We returned to the car after Alessandro had finished with Cola.

Edoardo was checking his gelled hair in the wing mirror of the second Abarth. He had showered and dressed and wore a fragrance that reminded me of  bergamot and pineapple. He was dressed entirely in white; his shirt was loose and unbuttoned to show the smoothness of his chest. 

“Arrivederci,” I said to him.

Edoardo said nothing, started the car and sped away. 

“I seem to bring out the worst in people,” I suggested to Cola as we drove back to Verona. “First Lorenzo, and now Edoardo.”

“Edoardo is strange. He resents that I work here but will not complain because he relies on his father’s wealth. He is not a problem.”

“But he stands to inherit everything one day.”

“No,” Cola quipped. “He will get nothing. They will leave it all to me.” 

He laughed, but I had known Cola since a boy, and knew that when he joked it was to hide something serious.

After Torricelle, the streets of Verona provided welcome relief; I was returning to where I felt comfortable and could act myself again. But Cola was able to step effortlessly between contrasting worlds. 

Verona was in slumber. The pavements were empty;  everyone had retreated into the shadows to find whatever coolness remained. Shopkeepers sat on chairs and fanned themselves. Dogs slept under tables. Teenage boys removed their shirts and lounged on street corners.

Bianchi sent another photo.

The photograph showed Bianchi and Antonio eating ice cream with great blobs balanced on the ends of their noses. It was gloriously childish. Whatever melancholy had shadowed Bianchi that morning had disappeared. 

“We are all small boys at heart,” Cola remarked while looking at my phone and driving far too fast.

Stolen Words: Tell England – A Study in a Generation

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“You know I like Archie Pennybet very much indeed. In fact, I think I like him better than anyone else in the world, ‘septing of course my relations.” – Edgar Doe.

One of my recurring frustrations with old books is this.

Every so often, I pick up a novel now regarded as homoerotic and wonder how on earth its first readers failed to notice what was sitting in plain sight.

A second dose from Ernest Raymond’s 1922 First World War novel, Tell England: A Study in a Generation, a book that goes to extraordinary lengths to beat around the bush.

When it was published, the poor dears read it as a patriotic, high-church Anglican tribute to the tragic “lost generation” of British public schoolboys sent to Gallipoli. The lingering focus on male beauty and passionate friendships seems to have passed them by.

You may recall from an earlier post that Raymond himself later openly acknowledged the novel’s homosexual subplot.

The first half of the novel, Five Gay Years of School, introduces the narrator, Rupert Ray, and his classmates as young men who are acutely aware of their own attractiveness, opening one school chapter with Archie Pennybet’s  boast: “I’m the best-looking person in this room.” Time and again, they are presented as magnificent, almost perfect creations of God.

At the heart of the story is Rupert’s deeply emotional attachment to his classmate Edgar Doe, who is quite unmistakably homosexual. Their relationship is marked by jealousy, devotion, and emotional intensity that often resembles a love affair far more than ordinary friendship.

“I say, why does Doe avoid us now?” 

“The Gray Doe,” sneered Penny. “Oh he – She’s in love, I suppose. With Radley.”

“Don’t drivel,” I commanded. “Why does he hang about with that awful Freedham?”

“When you’re my age, Rupert,” began Penny, in kind and accommodating explanation, “you’ll know that there are such things as degenerates and decadents. Freedom is one. And very soon Doe will be another.”

“Well, hang it,” I said, “if you think that, how can you joke about it, and leave him to go his way?”

“Oh, the young fellow must learn wisdom. And he’s not in any danger of being copped. I’m the only one that suspects, and I guessed because I’m exceptionally brilliant. Besides, if he wants to go to the devil for a bit, you can’t take his arm and go with him.”

“No,” I said, “but you can take his arm and bring him back.”

The schoolmaster, Radley, is described as regarding the boys with a “strong, active love.” Rupert comments: “We were his hobby. I have met many such lovers of youth.”

In the second half of the novel, the boys are sent to Gallipoli. The emotional and physical admiration established during their schooldays evolves into a romanticised martyrdom, where dying beautifully for England becomes the ultimate fulfilment of their youth.

By Jove, Ernest Raymond was clever.

He wrote about male intimacy with remarkable emotional and physical closeness without provoking the censors of the 1920s. Wrapped in high-church religiosity and fervent patriotism, it was accepted by the general public as nothing more than an innocent, heart-rending tribute to fallen soldiers.

Shadows of Verona – Mine to Lose

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“I don’t think your brother liked me,” I suggested to Bianchi.

His English had improved enormously since our last meeting, but he failed to understand what I had said. This, I realised, was how our conversations were going to be. My Italian was considerably worse.

“Lorenzo,” I persisted. “He hated me.”

“Enzo does not like me either,” Bianchi replied. “He says I must change. If I do not, he will make me change.” He paused before adding with a hopeful smile, “Is my English good?”

The memory lingered.

Bianchi’s mother scarcely looked old enough to have three grown children. Her eyes sparkled as she welcomed me into her home. Cinzia had clearly told her about me. Like most of the family, she spoke no English, and Cola translated.

She is delighted that you have come.”

In the background, Lorenzo had made his feelings perfectly clear. As we left the apartment, I glanced back just in time to see him draw a finger slowly across his throat.

We settled in the small courtyard behind Signora Bruschi’s building. Four sun-bleached walls, their peeling ochre and sienna softened by deep green ivy, enclosed the space. Around us drifted the familiar soundtrack of Italy: overlapping conversations spoken in rapid, melodic bursts, punctuated by warm laughter and the rhythmic clink of porcelain spoons against ceramic coffee cups.

Cinzia seemed to interpret my return as a declaration of intent towards Bianchi, who sat casually between us.

“Lorenzo è uno stronzo,” she declared. “He is a complete asshole. Ignore him.”

“I disagree,” Cola interrupted. “Miles must be careful not to antagonise him, otherwise there will be consequences.”

“I do not like the sound of this person,” Signora Bruschi frowned.

For the first time that day I was able to study Bianchi properly.

He was small in stature but lean and athletic. His olive complexion carried the faintest flush across his cheeks, while his pale eyes seemed incapable of hiding emotion. Whenever he spoke, his hands moved instinctively, every gesture as expressive as his words.

Bella figura.

Like many boys his age, he dressed with understated style: dark skinny jeans, immaculate white leather trainers, a pale button-down shirt, and around his neck a simple silver chain from which a small St Christopher medallion occasionally caught the light.

He noticed me watching him.

The unguarded charm of a working-class country boy surfaced immediately. His hand brushed gently against my knee, and the hopeful expression on his face suggested that he was still searching for my approval.

I remained uncertain whether this was a path I truly wanted to follow.

The oppressive heat mirrored the suffocating intensity of obsession.

Much had happened during the past year.

Bianchi was studying sports science at Liceo Scientifico Statale Angelo. He had also found part-time work as a porter at a hotel in Verona. Once school broke for the summer, he would spend the season picking peaches, cherries and kiwi fruit on a large farm before moving into the nearby vineyards for the September grape harvest.

Then Signora Bruschi announced that she would prepare lunch for everyone.

Almost immediately, Cola declared that he and Cinzia were meeting friends later at Pedrotti on Via Venti Settembre.

“But Bianchi will stay here,” he added with a grin. “No doubt he will spend the night with Miles.”

His announcement made it sound as though I had been volunteered to babysit Bianchi, who was still considered too young to spend the evening drinking with the others. Pleasant though it was to be included, I could not escape the feeling that Cola and Cinzia were quietly steering events.

Signora Bruschi immediately crossed herself.

“That will not happen,” she said firmly.

Her reaction caught me by surprise.

Like many Italians, she held deeply rooted Catholic beliefs, yet she had raised no objection when I had lived with Pietro several years earlier. After his death, she had even insisted that his rooms were mine whenever I wished to return.

“Bianchi is welcome to stay,” she continued, “but he must sleep in Cola’s room.”

“Cosa vuoi dire, mamma?”

There was, I had come to realise, a distinctly Veronese form of compromise. Family harmony always came first. Certain realities were quietly accepted, provided nobody spoke about them too openly.

“Bianchi will share a bed with you, Cola.”

“Ma, mamma…”

She folded her hands as though in prayer.

“I must protect both boys,” she said. “Miles is already in a relationship, and I will not allow anything to happen beneath my roof that might threaten that.”

Only then did Bianchi understand.

His shoulders dropped, and the disappointment on his face was impossible to miss. He had lived on memories for an entire year. Now it seemed he would have to keep waiting.

No one had asked for my opinion.

The more I thought about it, the more I realised that obsession did not belong to Bianchi alone.

The thought of Cola and Bianchi sharing a bed stirred a jealousy I had never known I possessed. Whatever doubts I still harboured, I suddenly recognised that I regarded Bianchi as mine to lose. Cola, who had no interest whatsoever in Cinzia’s younger brother and would never dream of taking advantage of the arrangement, had nevertheless become the one person standing between us.

Only Cinzia seemed amused.

“Cola,” she teased, “I hope you can survive the smell of Bianchi’s cheap body spray and teenage sweat. Perhaps it would be better if you slept with Miles instead, and Bianchi could have Miles’s bed all to himself.”

Short Story: The Silence Between Summers

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Photo by Aitana Valencia for Fucking Young! (2026)

Tyler distrusted men… including Kyle. And there was a reason for that.

It was something their parents had never spoken about, at least not in front of him. Yet Kyle had always known that something terrible had happened during that summer by the sea. Something that caused Tyler to retreat into a painful silence and refuse to leave his bed. Something that made both families weep behind closed doors. Something that brought the police to the house, speaking in hushed voices before taking Tyler away.

Their holiday ended that day.

Soon afterwards, Tyler’s family moved away from the neighbourhood. When Kyle asked where they had gone, his father sat him down and told him, “There are some things that don’t concern little boys.”

For years, Kyle wondered whether it had somehow been his fault.

Then, ten years later, he overheard his mother speaking on the telephone.

“I shall ask him,” she said. “I’m sure he will agree.”

That summer, Kyle and Tyler saw each other again for the first time since their childhood. They returned to the same house where their families had once stayed — the house that overlooked the beach where they had played, swum in the sea, and laughed at each other’s terrible jokes.

It was there that Kyle finally discovered what had kept them apart all those years.

Tyler distrusted men… and it had become impossible to ignore. His therapist had suggested that the only way to confront the past was to return to the place where it had happened, accompanied by somebody he could trust.

Shadows of Verona – You Are Here

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“C’è un ragazzo che viene a trovarti ogni giorno e ti chiede quando torni.” There is a boy who comes to visit you every day and asks when you are coming back.

Bianchi had been turning up at Signora Bruschi’s doorstep daily.

“Credo di essere nei guai. Sono nei guai grossi.” I think I am in trouble. I am in serious trouble.

Bianchi messaged me too, sometimes several times a day, and each time I replied with words designed to prolong the chase.

“Torna presto, per favore. Ho bisogno di parlarti.”

“I will come over soon,” I promised.

But that was last year, and I never did.

Bianchi was now seventeen, and on his birthday I sent the same number of red roses. His sister, Cinzia, provided me with updates. In her eyes, I had crossed a line. The time had come to make a commitment.

Cola, meanwhile, painted another picture.

“There is only one way to end his heartache,” he wrote. “There is only one way to calm a stormy sea.”

I was never entirely certain what he meant.

I had missed Cola.

He was now nineteen and no longer the skinny boy I remembered. I suspected that he had been spending time in the gym. His body had broadened, his shoulders were stronger, and he seemed taller than ever. With temperatures stuck in the mid-thirties, he wore sunglasses, a baggy white T-shirt and black shorts that showed off his long, sun-darkened legs.

But some things had not changed.

He still drove too fast, as if the possibility of death around the next bend had never occurred to him. He pushed the bright yellow Abarth 500 along the E70 before leaving the main road and cutting through the countryside towards San Giorgio in Salici.

Before I had arrived, Cola had sent me one of his strange messages:

In love, conversation is direct but risks becoming too harsh; measure your tone. In love, you desire stability, but someone is testing you.

I wondered whether it was a warning.

San Giorgio is a highly venerated figure in Italian Catholicism. He is also St George, the patron saint of England.

“Maybe it is a sign,” Cola said, his arms stretched along the steering wheel as he reclined in his seat.

I had arrived in Verona the previous night. Cola had collected me from Villafranca Airport and wasted no time suggesting that we visit his girlfriend, Cinzia, and her brother, Bianchi.

His mother, Signora Bruschi, had been less enthusiastic.

“The boy is too young,” she warned. “He is not old enough to know what he wants. Are you not happy with your boyfriend?”

I did not have the energy to explain about Charlie. I had neither seen nor heard from him since our falling-out in Paris, and the likelihood was that I never would again. My future suddenly seemed to contain too many possible paths.

Cola had not told Cinzia that we were coming.

“She is working this morning, but it is a half-day and she will be home around lunchtime. There is always somebody at home.”

I had my reservations.

My appearance in San Giorgio in Salici might reopen wounds that had only partially healed. Bianchi still messaged me, though now perhaps only once a week. It felt as if he was slowly moving on, while leaving a door open in case I chose to meet him halfway.

Cinzia was different. She had hoped that I would satisfy her younger brother’s desires and now believed that I had treated him badly.

Would I still be welcomed in the same way as the year before?

“I must tell you that Lorenzo will be there,” Cola warned.

“Who is Lorenzo?”

“Cinzia and Bianchi’s older brother. I suggest that you ignore whatever he says.”

“What do you mean?”

“Lorenzo is trouble — for his family and for himself. He makes life difficult for Bianchi because he is gay.”

Cola ran his hand through his short hair, leaving only one hand on the steering wheel, which did little to calm my nerves.

San Giorgio in Salici emerged from the Veronese countryside, surrounded by flourishing vineyards, a village that seemed little more than a collection of houses stretching along its roads. Cola screeched to a halt on Via Celà and announced that we had arrived.

The building where Cinzia and Bianchi lived looked tired. Four storeys high, its crumbling exterior had been patched with uneven concrete repairs. The ground floor contained a garage and storage rooms; the floors above were residential.

“They live at the top,” Cola said, pointing towards a balcony that stretched across the façade.

I followed him up the communal stairs. There was no lift. On one of the walls somebody had sprayed a single word of graffiti.

Vaffanculo.

“Go fuck yourself,” Cola translated.

I had long realised that Italians rarely knocked on doors or rang bells when they were not strangers. Once Cola had made sure I was behind him, he walked straight into the apartment and moved down a long corridor lined with family photographs.

The living room was filled with more memories — framed pictures, hand-painted ceramics and Catholic iconography: crucifixes, rosaries and a statue of Padre Pio. A large dining table stood by the window, covered with fine linen and carefully arranged dinnerware.

A young man — presumably Lorenzo — was stretched across a sofa watching a game show. He looked at us but did not move. Cola greeted him with a high-five and exchanged a few words in Italian.

Lorenzo turned his eyes towards me.

There was suspicion there.

He spoke quietly to Cola, but his expression suggested that he had already decided he did not like me.

“Cinzia is not home yet,” Cola explained. “Bianchi has gone to the grocery store with his mother and will be back soon. Sit down.”

There was an obvious resemblance between Lorenzo and Bianchi, although the older brother was taller, with shorter hair and the kind of beauty that seemed almost commonplace among young Italian men.

I remembered something David Hockney once said: if handsome New York boys ranked at one hundred, handsome Italian boys were almost certainly at one thousand.

But Lorenzo lacked Bianchi’s warmth.

“He does not speak English,” Cola said. “But Bianchi has been learning at the liceo.”

I remembered the days when our conversations had relied on Cinzia’s excellent English and her willingness to translate.

“Be careful of Lorenzo,” Cola continued in a lowered voice, although Lorenzo undoubtedly knew we were discussing him. “He hates that Bianchi is gay and will not like the idea of you being here, especially if he thinks you have come to take his brother away.”

“Then why did you insist that I come, Cola?” I asked.

“They are family to me,” he replied. “Just as you are like a big brother to me, Miles. But Lorenzo spends time with bad people — criminals who go into Verona to steal from shops and tourists. I do not like it, but he is Cinzia’s brother, and I must respect him.”

Suddenly, the apartment door slammed.

“Bianchi. Vieni qui. C’è qualcuno che ti aspetta.”

“Aspettare?” he replied.

There was a muffled exchange in the kitchen, followed by the sounds of cupboards opening and closing. Then their mother laughed — a sharp, joyful shriek, as though Bianchi had said something unexpected.

“Bianchi!” Lorenzo shouted impatiently.

It is difficult to describe the expression on his face when he appeared.

He stood in the doorway.

His eyes widened. His eyebrows lifted. His mouth fell slightly open as he struggled to draw breath.

His gaze fixed on me.

“Miles,” he whispered.

“You are here.”