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But a Heaviness Lingers in his Limbs

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 20 are available to read in the menu)

Perfectly Hard and Glamorous – Part 21

March 1985

Ice cream was the reason that Paolo came to Sheffield. He was born at Montescaglioso in the Province of Matera; his father from an ice-cream making family and his mother the only daughter of a farmer. Like a lot of Italian families, they believed that opportunities existed elsewhere. His father, Giovanni, decided that Sheffield might be the best place but perhaps hadn’t realised that the city already had generations of Italian ice-cream sellers. Paolo was two years old when the family settled in England. Being around Italian parents meant that he still had his native accent.

“I wasn’t sure when it was that I realised I preferred boys to girls,” Paolo told me. “But one thing was certain and that was that I must never tell my mother and father. If news ever got back to Italy, then I would become an outcast. Gay boys and Catholicism are frowned upon even though they are known for practising in secret”

We were taking advantage that his parents had returned to Montescaglioso for a holiday. Paolo had wanted me to stay with him for the two week duration and I had been only too willing. We were in his narrow bed facing the crucifix that hung by a nail on the wall. His sheets were crisp and clean and smelt of lavender that showed that his mother took her household chores seriously. Better than my own mother did. We were both naked; Paolo faced the door as though somebody might walk in; I pressed up against his glowing body and licked the tiny black curls on his neck. His body throbbed with pleasure.

“I suppose that we’re both in a similar position,” I suggested. “Can you imagine how people would react if they found out that I was a bum bandit?”

“And a good one at that,” he moaned. “We do what we love.”

The situation was irrational. We had somehow managed to separate our nightly debaucheries from the moments when we were alone together. Our employment with the Rufus Gang meant that I was expected to deflower Paolo in front of an audience almost every night. Hordes of lecherous men cheered as we went through the motions. But these exhibitions had become mechanical, devoid of feeling. Our love was not something meant to be shared with strangers. Our resentment for the crowd only deepened when they demanded to do the same to each of us in turn.

Everything changed when we were alone. Then we could show our love as it was meant to be. But such opportunities were rare. We both still lived at home, and the chance to share a bed was frustratingly uncommon. Most of the time we met in a secluded corner of the park, sitting close together until darkness fell. Once night came, we could never seem to get enough of each other.

“It was always you that I wanted,” Paolo said.

“You only liked the idea of a bad boy,” I replied. “Someone who was always getting into trouble. Someone you thought you’d never stand a chance of having.”

“But I did, didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” I said. “You did. In the end.”

“When did you realise that you loved me?”

I thought about the conversation at June’s kitchen table.

“It was the moment that June told me that I had fallen in love. Before that I’d resisted any suggestion and thought that I liked girls because they all seemed to fall in love with me. Not Andy. Not Jack. Always me. But I was bored with it all. The thought of sex bored me. But then something strange happened. And then I remembered the time when Frank Smith made us kiss each other on that bench. Something snapped that night. I’d kissed a guy and something inside me stirred. I didn’t know what it was and struggled to understand it.”

Paolo turned and kissed me on the lips.

“Any regrets?”

“What do you think?”

“Ah, that is a good answer. You are my man, Harry.”

I squeezed him hard.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “Maybe we should go on holiday. I’d like to take you to my hometown in Italy.”

The suggestion caught me off guard.

“Is that a good idea?”

“Why not? We’ve made plenty of money. We should spend some of it. Go somewhere we don’t have to keep looking over our shoulders. And you’ll like Italy.”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “Where would we stay? What would your family think?”

“We could book a hotel.”

Even so, I had my reservations. The farthest I’d ever travelled was Ingoldmells with the boys, and that had ended badly: a fight with a group of lads from Nottingham and a night in a Lincolnshire police cell. The thought of going abroad unnerved me. There was also the small matter that I didn’t have a passport.

But what would you tell your parents?” I asked.

“Harry, we need to get away and spend some time on our own.”

Another problem occurred to me then. What would I tell Andy and Jack? We’d always done everything together. If they heard I was going on holiday, they’d expect to come along. And I couldn’t tell them I was travelling with Paolo.

As far as they were concerned, Paolo didn’t exist.

The thought hung between us like an elephant in the room.

“I’ll think about it,” I told him, before leaning over and licking his ear.

*****

For weeks afterwards I wrestled with the problem. I knew that, sooner or later, the day of reckoning would come. I just hadn’t expected it to arrive the way it did.

We were playing pool at Penny Black. I was lining up a shot when I saw Billy Mason walk in with something tucked under his arm.

“Fuck,” I muttered.

I fluffed the shot and passed the cue to Jack.

“Don’t look now, boys,” I said quietly, “but look who’s just walked in.”

They both turned immediately.

“Who the fuck are we looking at?” Andy asked.

Then it dawned on me: they only knew Billy Mason by reputation, not by sight.

“I think we should leave,” I said.

Andy set his pint down on the edge of the pool table.

“We’re not going anywhere.”

Jack sank his shot and wandered over to sit down, but I was already planning a hasty exit. Billy seemed to know half the people in the place and spent a few minutes chatting to them. I hoped he hadn’t noticed us.

Then, the next minute, he came walking over—smiling, easy, friendly.

In our world, when a man walked up like that, you braced yourself for the worst.

Andy rolled his shoulders and clenched his fists. Jack got to his feet and began prowling around the table. I tightened my grip on the cue—something that could pass for a weapon if it came to it.

Three against one. Easy.

Except that every other cunt in the place would be on Billy’s side.

“Boys, boys, boys,” he said lightly. “Easy on it.”

Billy gave me a quick nod, but I didn’t return it.

“Harry,” he laughed. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?”

I said nothing.

“Let me guess,” he went on. “This must be Andy and Jack. I’ve heard plenty about you both, though we haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Jack asked.

“Billy Mason,” he said. “I thought Harry might have mentioned that he and I recently became acquainted.”

Andy and Jack turned to look at me, puzzled.

“I did a nice little number on him a few weeks ago,” Billy added cheerfully. “Call it payback for the trouble you lads caused my girl.”

Andy seemed to grow an inch or two and stepped forward.

“Don’t try anything,” Billy warned calmly. “There are men in here. Not boys who only think they are.”

“Get the fuck out of our faces,” Andy snapped. His expression was dark—partly because Billy Mason and his lot could wreck us if they wanted to, and partly, perhaps, because there were things I hadn’t told him.

Billy only smiled.

“I’m sure you know I’m a big man in Sheffield,” he said. “I don’t take kindly to people messing with me.”

“That robbery was ages ago,” Jack said.

Billy’s smile faded.

“Oh yes,” he said quietly. “It was. But in my line of work, it pays to remember the people who’ve caused you trouble.” He paused, then shrugged. “Still, I’m not here to settle old scores. Far from it. Let bygones be bygones.”

I’d been so caught up in the moment that I hadn’t noticed what he’d been carrying under his arm. Then he dropped my black Adidas bag onto the table.

“I’m only returning lost property,” he said casually. “I believe this belongs to you, Harry.”

I froze.

“Shall we check that nothing’s missing?”

I lunged for it, but Billy was quicker.

“Oh no,” he said brightly. “I insist we make sure.”

Before I could stop him, he tipped the bag over and began emptying the contents across the table. When he’d finished, he held it upside down to show it was empty, then let it fall to the floor.

My mind was racing. Everything was spread out in front of us. I thought about walking away, but I knew that would only raise more questions.

Andy and Jack edged closer to Billy, though not in any threatening way. They were too busy staring at what lay on the table.

Several tubes of KY jelly—some half used, some still sealed. Two bottles of baby oil. A couple of pairs of clean boxer shorts, and one dirty pair. A grubby T-shirt. A small bottle of poppers.

And a cock ring.

Billy looked straight at me.

“What a curious collection, Harry.”

Now it was Andy and Jack’s turn to look at me. Neither of them spoke. Andy frowned, his brow creasing with confusion. Jack held my gaze for a few seconds, then looked down at the floor.

Billy looked smug.

“Isn’t it funny,” he said to the others, “the things we don’t know about our friends? If I didn’t know better, I might think these belonged to someone who’s a bit of a woofter.”

“Fuck you, Billy,” I shot back. “You’ve planted those to make me look bad. I swear I’ll get my own back.”

It sounded plausible enough, and I thought I might salvage something from the wreckage.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Andy said quickly. “You’d do anything to settle a score. Harry’s not a bum-bandit. Not even close. I suggest you piss off now, because you’re starting to get on my nerves.”

He picked up his pint, drained it in one go, then held the empty glass loosely in his hand.

“Leave,” Jack said, taking the cue from me. He gripped it by the thin end, ready to swing.

“Thought you might say that,” said Billy calmly. “But before I go, there’s something else you ought to know.”

I fixed him with a stare, daring him to say another word.

“You see,” he continued, “there are other things you don’t know about Harry. Me? I know everything. I’ve got eyes and ears everywhere.”

“Go on then,” Andy said.

“Well, for starters, Harry’s in cahoots with a copper. Lucky for you, really. Thanks to him you only got a slap on the wrist for that robbery.”

“And?”

Billy smiled.

“The next bit’s a little delicate, isn’t it, Harry? I’m guessing he hasn’t told you what he gets up to in other people’s houses.” He blew me a kiss. “Handsome Harry’s quite the favourite with the blokes.”

He gestured lazily at the things spread across the table.

“And I suppose all this rather proves the point, doesn’t it?”

Andy and Jack said nothing.

“You’re a fat bastard, Billy,” I said.

By then I didn’t care if he beat the shit out of me. He’d already done enough damage. Getting knocked unconscious almost seemed like the better option. All I could think was: why me?

“I’ll be off then, boys.”

Billy turned as if to leave, then paused.

“Oh—nearly forgot. How’s your Italian boyfriend, Harry?”

Andy smashed the empty glass down on the pool table.

“So long, fellas,” Billy called over his shoulder. “And watch your arses while Harry’s around.”

*****

My head was resting in Paolo’s lap, the tip of his cock pressing against the side of my neck. He stroked my hair gently, his delicate fingers tracing the old scars that ran across my face.

“Andy and Jack went to the bar and bought themselves drinks. Not for me.

“While they sat there staring, I gathered everything from the table and stuffed it back into the bag. That was the worst part of it all—the silence. Not one fucking word.

“In the end I left them sitting in the Penny Black and came straight here.”

“Povero ragazzo mio,” he murmured softly. “Ti amo.”

I didn’t understand but it had a soothing effect.

I’d disturbed Paolo on one of the few nights that we weren’t working. The Golden Girls played out in front of us. He’d turned the sound down low. He drank strong coffee from a tiny cup and offered me some. It tasted vile but I wasn’t Italian.

“I’m finished, Paolo. I’ll never be able to show my face again and I’ve probably lost my two best friends.”

He made shushing sounds.

“And now it’s got to stop.”

“What do you mean?” Paolo asked with concern.

“I’m going to tell Frank that we’re not doing it anymore. That shit has cost me everything.”

“But if we hadn’t done so, we would never have met.”

“There is that, but we have each other now. Honestly, Paolo, we’re in serious shit and we need to get out. We can go and live in Italy. We’ll get jobs. We’ll build new lives.”

Paolo didn’t respond. He was probably thinking the same as I was. It was never going to happen. But I had to think of somewhere that was as far away as possible.

The telephone rang.

Paolo got up to answer it.

“Pronto.” It appeared that anybody who rang here was going to be Italian. But then Paolo started speaking in English. “When? Where? I shall tell him. Arrivederci.”

“It was Frank,” he said. “He is looking for you and wants us to go to June’s house.”

When the Past Came Back as Tom

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Perfectly Hard and Glamorous – Part 20

March 2025
Do you ever look at someone and feel certain they remind you of somebody else? The maddening part is not knowing who.

It happened to me last night.

Tom was sprawled on the sofa watching South Park — a show which, until then, I had probably been the only person on the planet never to see. He lay there like he owned the place, which in a way he now did. He hadn’t officially moved in, but he’d managed it in that quiet, stealthy way that gave me no real moment to object.

He wore nothing but a T-shirt and a pair of black football shorts. His head rested in the cushions while one smooth leg hooked lazily over the back of the sofa so that his bare foot dangled in the air.

I had seen that posture before.

Somewhere.
Somehow.

I tried to place it, but nothing came.

“Why are you staring at me, Harry?”

“I’m not,” I lied.

There’s something you should know about Tom, though it probably won’t surprise you.

Shortly after Christmas he’d been arrested for dealing drugs. He spent his weekends drifting around the city-centre clubs selling small bags of cocaine and making what he called “decent money.” One night a CCTV camera caught him in the act and within minutes he was surrounded by police.

Unluckily for him it had been a quiet night. When they searched him they found quite a stash hidden in his underwear. After they relieved him of it, he spent the night in a cell and was told to expect a court summons.

According to Tom, he was only the middleman — which, as it turned out, made matters worse. The man above him was furious about the lost merchandise and decided Tom owed him for it. Before long there was a price on his head.

Not for the first time, Tom had shown up on my doorstep covered in blood.

That was when I discovered how deep his troubles really ran. Two men with baseball bats had beaten him black and blue and informed him that his services were no longer required.

That night Tom told me almost everything.

He said he couldn’t go home to Hillsborough — too many questions, too many explanations. Instead he took a long shower, wrapped himself in a towel, and eventually curled up in his usual place on the sofa.

Since then he’d only ventured outside during the day. Evenings were spent stretched out in front of the television.

So far I hadn’t objected.

I never gave him a hard time about it either. My own past had been far murkier than Tom’s, and I hoped that maybe the experience had taught him something.

If it had, good.
If not, I wasn’t exactly the man to lecture him.

I knew how he must have felt.

The memory came back suddenly — a night nearly forty years earlier.

I hadn’t thought about Billy Mason from Gleadless Valley in decades, but he evidently hadn’t forgotten me.

A few years before that night, the Geisha Boys had robbed cigarettes from an off-licence where Billy’s girlfriend worked. She’d been hurt in the scuffle while Andy and Jack had been arrested. Word eventually got back to Billy about who’d been involved.

Frank Smith — an unruly police sergeant who occasionally did us favours — managed to have the charges dropped. He warned Billy Mason to leave it alone.

But I still remembered Frank’s words.

“The trouble is,” he’d said, “I can’t trust him.”

Billy Mason was the hardest case in the Valley. I normally stayed well clear of the place, but on that particular night I’d been sent there to entertain someone in a maisonette.

No Paolo this time.

It was a comedown after some of the houses I’d visited. No Jaguars or Mercedes outside. Just battered Vauxhall Cavaliers and old Ford Escorts.

But by then the Rufus Gang controlled the city’s rent boys, and when they told you where to go, you went. There was no negotiating.

Before heading up there I called into the John O’Gaunt for a pint.

A stupid mistake, as it turned out.

I hadn’t realised it was Billy Mason’s local.

He spotted me at the bar and followed when I left. I wasn’t exactly sure where I was going and took a shortcut behind some garages.

Another mistake.

Ironically, the only man never actually implicated in the robbery was the one Billy chose to punish.

He smashed a bottle over my head.

While I lay on the ground he kicked and stamped on me until I cried out.

“Don’t let anyone say Billy Mason holds a grudge,” he told me. “That’s wrong. I just hurt them instead.”

Then he left me grovelling in the mud and nicked my bag — several tubes of KY jelly and a spare change of clothes inside.

My head was split open and everything hurt.

I never made it to the maisonette. I staggered miles back home instead.

And if meeting Billy Mason had been an ordeal, the aftermath was nearly worse.

The Rufus Gang were not impressed that I’d failed to turn up. They made their feelings known with another beating and a warning not to cross them again.

“I guess we’ve lived parallel lives,” I said to Tom.

He lay there in the half-light, his body half hidden in shadow.

And then it hit me.

Hard.

Harder than I could have imagined.

“Tell me about yourself, Tom.”

“I’ve told you. There’s nothing to tell.”

“Tell me about your family.”

“What?” He sat up quickly. His face went pale.

Game over.

“What’s this really been about?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he muttered.

Memories flashed in my head. Old anger. Old violence.

I grabbed him by the throat and shoved him back against the sofa.

He tried to push me away but I was stronger. I pinned him down, my knee digging into his groin.

I wanted to hurt him.

I tightened my grip as he gasped for breath.

“I’ve been so fucking stupid!”

His blue eyes filled with tears. That was confirmation enough.

Just before he lost consciousness I released him.

Instead of fighting back he collapsed into sobs, choking for air, snot running down his nose as he tried to breathe.

I stood over him.

“Tell me who your dad is.”

He couldn’t answer at first. He just curled away, crying. I doubted the tough little bastard had cried in front of anyone before.

Eventually I sat in the chair opposite and waited.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” he whimpered.

“Jack will eat no fat, and Harry no lean. Yet between them both Harry licks Jack’s ass clean.”

I watched him closely.

“Why didn’t you tell me your dad was Jack?”

Tom stared at his feet, fiddling with his toes — something he always did when he was nervous.

“Jack’s the same age as me,” I continued quietly. “Which means he had you late.”

Tom nodded.

“I’m the youngest,” he said. “Got a brother and two sisters.”

I shook my head.

“I’m struggling to understand this. Why all the cloak-and-dagger stuff?”

“My dad knew you were back in Sheffield. He wanted to know why.”

“Why didn’t he ask me himself?”

Tom shrugged helplessly.

“You’ll have to ask him that.”

“And it wasn’t an accident you ended up here?”

“No.”

“Was it planned?”

He nodded again.

“He wanted me to get to know you.”

I laughed bitterly.

“And I fell for it.”

“But why now?” I asked. “We haven’t seen each other in forty years.”

“A few years ago my dad showed me your books,” Tom said. “That’s how I knew who you were. He’d read them all. Said he used to know you, but whenever I asked how he’d change the subject.”

Jack reading books? I struggled to imagine it.

“Did he tell you why I left Sheffield?”

“No. Just that the Geisha Boys turned their backs on you.”

I sighed.

“When I needed my friends most, they fucked me off,” I said simply.

Tom studied the floor before speaking again.

“There’s something else you don’t know. My dad missed you more than you think. Maybe it was guilt. I don’t know.”

“Bollocks,” I said.

“I’m serious. He wanted me to find out if you were okay.”

I lit a cigarette and handed him one. His hands shook as he tried to light it.

“I told him you were doing well,” Tom continued. “That you were writing about the past.”

“And?”

“He looked… sad.”

That caught me off guard.

“I loved your dad,” I admitted quietly. “I loved Andy too. But Jack more.”

Tom listened without interrupting.

“He had everything going for him. Handsome. Charismatic. Brilliant footballer. I even dated his sister for a while just to stay close to him.”

Tom raised an eyebrow.

“So you fancied him?”

“Yes,” I said. “Though I didn’t understand it at the time. Things were different back then.”

We talked until the early hours.

For me it felt like a revelation. For Tom it was a relief not to lie anymore.

Eventually he settled back onto the sofa while I went to bed, though sleep refused to come.

Too many thoughts.

Too many memories.

Some time later the bedroom door creaked open and Tom slipped in beside me.

I turned away.

“Are you still mad at me?” he asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But I’m glad the truth’s out.”

After a pause I added:

“Your job was done months ago. Yet you’re still here. Doesn’t Jack find it strange you’re never home?”

Tom hesitated.

“I told him I was staying with my girlfriend.”

“The mysterious girlfriend.”

“Yeah… about that.”

“You haven’t been staying with her, have you?”

“No.”

“Why keep coming here?”

He took a long breath.

“There never was a girlfriend, Harry. But you probably guessed that.”

I didn’t answer.

“I kept coming back because I felt safe here,” he said. “And… I liked being around you. After a while it just felt normal.”

I could hear the nervousness in his voice.

“I guess I hoped it could stay like this.”

I sighed.

“When I came back to Sheffield I wanted peace and quiet,” I said. “But I’ve enjoyed having you around.”

Tom shifted closer.

“I really need a hug right now,” he murmured.

I turned and wrapped an arm around him.

He pressed into my shoulder, warm and solid, his breath brushing my cheek.

For a moment he felt like Jack.

But he wasn’t Jack.

He was his son.

And the feeling was both wonderful and deeply wrong.

“There’s something else,” Tom said after a moment.

“Go on.”

He groaned softly.

“God, this is awkward.”

“Spit it out.”

He took another breath.

“I think… I sort of fell in love with you.”

I laughed quietly.

“So what you’re saying is you’re a faggot after all.”

Tom snorted.

“Oi. I’m supposed to be the one calling you that.”

“That’s how it works,” I replied. “Takes one to know one.”

That was all it took.

We fell asleep wrapped around each other, waking every now and then just to confirm it wasn’t a dream.

For me it felt like something I’d wanted for years without realising.

For Tom it was the beginning of his first real love affair.

When morning came I discovered I couldn’t move because his arm was wrapped firmly around me.

I tried to shift.

He held tighter.

“Tom,” I said.

“Mmm?”

“Let go.”

“Where are you going?”

“I need to get up.”

“Stay a bit longer,” he mumbled, kissing my cheek.

“I have to write.”

“Write what?”

“The rest of my book.”

He opened one eye.

“And when it’s finished?”

“I want you to read it,” I said.

“Why me?”

“Because the ending matters.”

I looked at him carefully.

“Only when you read the ending will you understand everything.”

Charlie – On Films, Subtitles, and Temper

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There is a new film director in our apartment. Not literally, of course. But after seeing Kleber Mendonça Filho’s The Secret Agent at the cinema, we discovered that MUBI was showing a small collection of his earlier films. Trust Charlie to want to watch Aquarius, which—naturally—wasn’t among them.

The thing about Charlie is that he never gives up. He eventually found it on the Internet Archive, only to be dismayed that it was in Portuguese. He tried to locate English or French subtitles, but to no avail. The other thing about Charlie is that he is impatient.

I wrestled the TV remote from him and began investigating for myself. This was not what he wanted. “Give it back,” he ordered. “You’re wasting my time now.”

Call me childish, sulky—perhaps simply bad-tempered—but I had what can only be described as an adult tantrum. I threw the remote into his lap and stormed off to bed.

The next morning, Charlie went for the César Award. “I was frightened,” he claimed. “You threw the remote at my head. I believe I may even have been unconscious for a while.”

Stolen Words – Players – Edmund John

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“Bambino carissimo: – Will you come and stay with me in Florence? A revederci carino.”

Players
I send thee cigarettes for thy delight.
Smoke my belov’d and think awhile of one
Who thinks and dreams of thee from sun to sun
Longing to have thee, lov’d one, in his sight;
To hold to his thy lissom body tight;
To press thy lips and, pressing, to surprise
Thy soul and his together in thine eyes …
If this be wrong, no love on earth is right!

By Edmund John
Schoolmaster and Poet (1883-1917)

Charlie: Almost. Almost. The Scent That Remained

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Charlie didn’t go to Paris for Christmas. A family dispute—best addressed through absence—kept him away. Instead, he stayed with a cousin in Woodstock, near Blenheim Palace: an improbable place for pleasure. I was content with the opposite arrangement. Christmas alone. Eating, drinking, letting Netflix decide what mattered.

On Christmas Eve, I dreamed he climbed into bed and lay on top of me. His naked body was warm, yielding, unmistakably real. He kissed me. A faint musk rose from his skin—intimate, animal—stirring every sense at once. At last, I thought, this is the closeness.

I woke up with the sensation intact. The dream clung to me through Christmas morning, vivid enough to unsettle. I searched for an explanation and learned that smell can infiltrate dreams, especially when memory and desire are involved. Olfactory dreaming, they called it. Cologne was the usual example.

In the nineteenth century, a French physician, Alfred Maury, described inducing such dreams by getting his assistant to place eau de Cologne beneath his nose while he slept. On waking, Maury claimed to have dreamt of Cairo, of the perfumer Farina’s workshop, of adventures set loose by scent alone.

I hadn’t smelt Cologne. What lingered with me was the smell of a boy. And with it, a quieter truth: Charlie and I had never moved beyond kissing.

Someone, inevitably, had to puncture the theory. A psychiatrist dismissed the idea entirely. You don’t smell the coffee and wake up, she insisted. You wake up, then you smell the coffee.

I abandoned science and let Spotify take over. It suggested an album by Wolfgang Tillmans, which surprised me. I’d known him only as a photographer. The music turned out to be a sound work made for an exhibition—joy and heartbreak threading through collapse and repair.

I first encountered Tillmans years earlier through a Pet Shop Boys video composed almost entirely of mice living on the London Underground. Ever since, I’d found myself scanning platforms, tunnels, tracks—without success. A memory surfaced: my friend Stephen once worked on a four-hour Tillmans sound installation of It’s a Sin. He now despises the song completely.

Christmas dinner was an indulgence of sorts: cold baked beans eaten straight from the tin. I spent an hour scrolling through films before accepting, once again, that choosing outlasts watching. I downloaded the Christopher Isherwood biography David had recommended—the one that never seems to end—and fell asleep within pages.

When I woke, the room had darkened. Charlie had messaged: Will be home tonight at about eight x.

Transport on Christmas Day was nonexistent, yet somehow he’d convinced his cousin to drive him 130 miles. When Charlie arrived, I asked where his cousin was.

“Gone back,” he said.

“You didn’t invite him in?”

“It’s Christmas. He’ll want to be home.”

“And petrol money?”

He hesitated. “I didn’t think of that.”

Our former lodger once called Charlie a “me, me, me person.” Another friend was less generous and called him an asshole. Perhaps it was cultural. Perhaps it was simply him. Charlie struggled to imagine himself from the outside. I told myself it wasn’t malice. Just a narrow field of vision.

Despite the journey, he looked fresh, handsome. He smiled; I mirrored it. I considered mentioning the dream, then decided against it.

“Why come back early?”

“I shouldn’t have left you alone,” he said, without pause. “It’s Christmas.”

While he dropped his bag in the bedroom, I switched on the tree lights. We exchanged gifts a day early.

His were faultlessly chosen: Salò on Blu-ray, Sargent, Ramón Novarro, Edmund White, a glossy Igor Mattio photography book. Then he disappeared into the studio and returned with a canvas. He turned it around.

It was me.

He’d painted me sitting, relaxed, looking beyond the frame—as if caught somewhere warmer, lighter. My eyes were generous. My mouth was kind. Around my neck he’d included a thin silver chain, a birthday gift I wore only on rare occasions. The detail felt deliberate, almost intimate.

“I painted while you were writing,” he said. “I hope you like it.”

I had never been seen like that before. Not by anyone. I felt exposed, and cherished.

“I don’t know what to say,” I told him.

“One day,” he said lightly, “when you’re old—célèbre—people will say, painted by his French lover.’”

Charlie went to shower. Alone, I recognised a flicker of shame. I’d suspected his absence was a ruse. I’d rehearsed disappointment, punished him silently for not being who I wanted. The dream—so tender, so convincing—had fed that instinct. Sex can exist without love; love can exist without sex. The phrase circled uselessly.

Still, it would be nice.

There it was again. That reflex. The mind’s preference for negativity over positivity.

Charlie returned wearing only grey jogging bottoms and a Santa hat. He stretched out beside me on the sofa, smelling faintly of crushed mandarins, and rested his head in my lap.

“A Christmas film,” he murmured. “Something cosy.”

I stroked his stomach as we watched The Holdovers: a misaligned teacher, a sharp-tongued cook, a boy full of grievance. By the end credits, Charlie was asleep.

I didn’t move. I was afraid that motion would undo everything. His weight, his warmth, the faint citrus on his skin—it felt provisional, like something borrowed. The room held its breath.

I loved him then with a sudden, almost painful tenderness. Not the urge to claim, but to preserve. To keep the moment intact, untouched by language or expectation.

I stayed exactly where I was.

And waited to see whether stillness could last.

Life Story: The Third Drop

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I noticed him but he chose not to notice me. After he had dropped his mobile phone on the floor for the third time, he realised that he had to say something.

Three words that make it the best moment of my life

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This relationship is borderline and has been like this for years. A decade when we changed from boys into men. I have no idea whether this long infatuation has been about love, or lust, or perhaps both. But it is MY infatuation and not his. He sends a message with three short words – ‘YOU DA BEST’ – and I want to screenshot it.

Sympathy looks good on me. So sorry (not really)

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Six years. Remember the first time? Ignorant shit of a boy. I was the best, but to be fair, you did eventually realise that. Six years flirting. Six years wasted. All because you married that horse of a girl who never liked me. It ended badly. Tears tonight because you’re scared. I sympathised and looked incredibly sad. All the right moves. But really, my heart sang from the rooftops. My skinny petit pois…. ha ha!

“If a man can bridge the gap between life and death, if he can live on after he’s dead, then maybe he was a great man.”

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The day was hot and sunny like most days were in California. It was a good time to eat outside. A car growled along the freeway and for a moment I thought it might be you.

“Yes, it brings back memories. But old age plays tricks and I haven’t heard that sound for a very long time.”

I asked the new boy what the date was and he said it was 29 September. “That makes tomorrow the thirtieth then.” He looked at me like young people do. “I guess it does,” he said kindly and went about clearing the breakfast remains.

The new boy, who was called Trent, put a copy of The Hollywood Reporter in front of me. “I know you like reading the showbiz news, Joe.” I flicked through it but I only recognised old studio names.

“The people that we once knew have gone and so did the good movies.”

I heard Trent talking to Maria, a Mexican girl who had been here for years. “I think Joe is talking to himself,” he said. “They all talk to themselves here,” she told him. “Or they talk to somebody who isn’t there. Sit with him for a while.”

“Did you hear that? They think I’m senile. Old age isn’t nice. The truth is, there aren’t many people to chat with these days. The ones who want to talk are strangers, but even they get up and go.”

Trent sat at the table and lit a cigarette. He was in his early twenties and I suppose might have been considered handsome. He was blonde and blue-eyed like most boys around here. He hadn’t shaved and probably hadn’t slept. The cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth and I couldn’t help staring. “Is everything okay, Joe?”

“Look at him. Remember when you used to do that with your cigarette?”

The boy made small talk. He needed to make old people feel part of this strange world, and wanted me to act like everything was normal. But I was lost to the memories that lived inside my head.

“Are you looking at him? This boy cares nothing about how he looks but his soul shines. He is what you should have been.”

“So tomorrow is the 30th of September. Is that date important?” I’m roused from my thoughts and saw that Trent was waiting for an answer.

“I want to tell him to get in his car and find a good road to kill himself. That way he will be remembered as he is now.”

A breeze blew across the fields and made the trees around us sway and whisper.

“I knew that you couldn’t resist coming back to look.”

“Sometimes you die because living is not an option,” I told Trent. He looked confused. “I have known people who destroyed themselves to continue living.”

“What do you want me to say, Jim? What do you want me to say that I’ve not said a thousand times?”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying Joe.” Trent leant across the table and took my hands in his. “What is it that you’re trying to say?” I looked at his worried face and saw myself as a young man.

“A long time ago, I knew a boy about your age. He had everything and didn’t realise it. But he died and everything stopped.”

“Who was he, and what was he like?” Trent knew that I am an ex-smoker and offered me the cigarette. I took a drag but handed it back when I started coughing.

“Are you listening, Jim? I don’t want to shatter an illusion but I’m still pissed with you, and it might do me good to tell the truth, but I know I’m going to lie again.”

“He was kind and gentle,” I said. “And very talented. He was one of the finest actors I ever saw.”

“Well that’s what the world chose to believe, isn’t it?”

I looked at Trent and realised that he was from a generation who cared nothing for the past. When he was older, he might be interested in history and remember this conversation. He was supposed to be working and looked around to see if the bosses were watching. When he squinted, I saw a boy too vain to wear glasses. “I’m going back home to see my parents,” he said. “I haven’t seen them in months.” I was struck by his accent and asked where home might be? “I’m from Branson, Missouri, Joe.”

“That street corner on Overland Avenue where we met. You rode a motorbike and made small talk. ‘I’m from Fairmount, Indiana,’ you told me, and then you asked me if I wanted a blow job. Here’s another boy, far from home, in a place that promises everything, but gives nothing.”

Maria appeared and gave me my medication. Five tablets, three times a day. If I don’t take them I will die. Except that I’m on borrowed time anyway.

“I shall see you in hell because that’s where people like us end up. You’ll still be a handsome son of a bitch and will grunt when I ask you something, and I’ll be an ugly old man. How is that fair?

“Remember when I told you I loved you? The next day you came around and sat staring at me. Not a word for an hour. Staring like a madman. And I looked back, trying to make you talk, but you wouldn’t say anything. Then you pissed in the corner of the apartment and left.”

Somebody was in trouble. There were sirens on the freeway. Police cars, ambulances, and fire trucks. A chopper flew overhead. Everyone was in a hurry to help someone who might be trapped in the wreckage of a car.

“Tomorrow is the 30th September, and seventy years on, I believe you deliberately crashed. Was it because of me? Did you intend to die? Did you think that they could put those fractured pieces back together again? Did you want to be immortal?

Charlie / Whoever blushes is already guilty; true innocence is not considered

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“Enough about angels,” Charlie admonished. “I am tired of hearing about angels.”

I admit that I’ve been going on too much about angels but indulge me once more.

“We are waiting for an angel that never shows up. We don’t know if he’s there, because he could just be hiding behind the doorway.” I once saw that line accompanying an artwork in a gallery but I’m certain that I played around with the words. I suppose it means that we are on the lookout for a love that never comes, but is elusive and out of sight. But in the case of Charlie, he is elusive but right in front of my eyes.

I saw the angel looking fashionably casual in shorts and tee-shirt in the late night shop. His real name is Reese with an ‘S’ and he wasn’t hiding behind the doorway but appeared from behind shelves of soup, pasta and cans of beans. I know this angel, but he’s also out of reach.

The angel hadn’t expected to see anybody he knew, and froze like a rabbit in a car’s headlights. His smile faded when he saw that I was with someone. “Hi guys, are you going out?” I felt awkward. “No, we’re just going home,” I replied. Judging by the look on his face, that was a pretty dumb thing to say because it was a lie. “What about you? What are you up to?” He looked miserable. “I’m staying in for the next week or so.”

I wanted to say more but Charlie pulled me by the arm and signalled that it was time to leave. I nodded to the angel and left him on his own.

Outside the shop Charlie scowled. “Who’s the guy with the golden penis?” He has the ability to make me feel guilty, as though I’ve been doing something seedy and underhand, even when I’m completely innocent.

Later that night, I looked at the angel’s facebook page and could see that it was full of quotes like “can y’all please start dating men that actually like you so you can shut the fuck up,” and “come fw me, you won’t get cheated on.” Nobody posted any likes and I didn’t look anymore because it was too painful.

I felt sorry for him and contemplated sending a nice message, but I thought that might seem a bit creepy, and I wasn’t convinced that he wouldn’t show it to anyone.