Howard Moon, Former Male Prostitute
Category: The Mighty Boosh
Characters: Bob Fossil, Howard Moon, Vince Noir
Pairing: Howard Moon/Other, Howard Moon/Vince Noir
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Rating: R
Warning: Sex Work
Status: WIP
Length: 5-10k words
Notes: Deals with the subject matter of prostitution, and it’s not exactly a comedy.
Howard Moon, Former Male Prostitute by accioarse
[nextpage title=”Chapter One”]
Chapter One
If only his first client hadn’t cried, then Howard might not have ended up working as a male prostitute.
He was terrified as he went up in the hotel lift. How cramped everything was here in London, how grubby. Not like he’d imagined it would be back in Leeds. And then when they reached the hotel room, it was tiny and dilapidated, with a curling carpet and a strange, sour smell. Howard was used to part-time after-school wages and Yorkshire prices. This room alone had already cost a staggering amount, paid for in advance in crumpled tenners counted one by one onto the reception desk by the client. Howard couldn’t see how anything he did up here could possibly be worth all that money, not when he was such a complete novice at it. He hoped that things wouldn’t turn nasty.
Then the client shut the door on them, and Howard’s fear rose like a bubble of vomit. Any moment now, he’d have to admit he didn’t have a clue.
But the client just collapsed onto the bed, with a thump, sitting on the end. The shoulder pads in his suit jacket seemed to collapse, the bed gave an ominous creak, and with a croak he started to cry. It was his first time, he said, he’d never done anything like this before. He loved them so much – his wife and three children back home. He didn’t know what he was doing here, what they would think if they could see him now. Before Howard could stop him, he’d produced pictures from his wallet, two tiny dog-eared snapshots. There was one of a blonde smiling woman and there was one of the children neatly sitting in their school uniform. The eldest girl looked only a few years younger than Howard was now.
The client sobbed on, how he would never hurt his family. That this had all been a terrible mistake. Terrible. But he’d seen Howard standing there, at the bus station, and he’d looked so good. So amazing.
Howard knew he was fit, that he swam a lot – but he also had a history of failed chat up lines. He didn’t have much of experience with being told he was attractive, not right out like that. Certainly no one had ever called him amazing. He’d have been scared stupid if this client had been like the others would turn out to be, the ones who would hire a convenient set of parts and nothing else. But this one was so nice about it all, so pathetic, had even been driven by his guilt into paying for this overpriced hotel room rather than demanding the business be done fast in a dark, semi-public place. So Howard found himself holding the client. Pretending to be the strong one, and feeling his t-shirt slowly dampen as a face was pressed against it.
In the end, after an hour and a half of hand-holding, many cups of tea from the tiny plug-in kettle in the corner which turned the water nasty and plasticky, some out-of-date biscuits and yet more sobbed confessions, all that Howard ended up supplying was a solitary hand job. And he knew how to do one of those, so that was fine. Although the angle was a bit different when you were doing it to another person. Made it disorienting.
During the act, Howard marvelled at how easy it was, this performing for money. It didn’t hurt, it wasn’t invasive, he didn’t even have to get undressed. But after he’d finished, when the client indulged in another dissolving bout of tears, Howard was having the strong urge to have a good long cry himself.
The client had kissed him on the forehead as he left. It was disturbingly affectionate. “Do yourself a favour, son, and go home. Your mother loves you. You’re too good for this kind of thing. I can tell.” Another kiss, just between the eyebrows, and lingering. Yet more tears. “You’re too beautiful.”
Howard stared at the thirty pounds left on the bedside table, and thought, “If I’m really that beautiful, and older men really do fancy me, then this trick will work again. It’s really easy. Thirty quid – that’ll last me weeks! Especially if I get them to pay the hotel bills too. I won’t have to go back to Leeds and tell them all how I lost my job and how my landlady gave my room to somebody else. I can do this instead, and they’ll never need to know. Just for a while, just until I sort myself out.”
But first he had to go out onto the streets of London, back to King’s Cross Station where he’d first met the client. His rucksack was still in the lockers there waiting to be picked up. Before he’d been waylaid, Howard had been about to use the last of his money to buy a bus ticket north. But now he had a plan. Wolfing down the very last complimentary dusty Bourbon Cream, Howard crinkled aside the cellophane wrapper. Then he picked up his duffel coat, and headed out towards the night.
The second time Howard Moon had sex for money, it was a lot more difficult.
For a start, he went back to King’s Cross. There, he wondered how he should attract attention. After a while he took off his duffel coat, and then his cardigan, draping both over his arm idly, and stood about at the entrance, flaunting his flesh. But for all his cold arms, nothing was happening. Perhaps he wasn’t ‘beautiful’ after all – or at least not in a way that attracted the kind of men who pay for sex. That guy last night might have been mistaken, or blind, or desperate. Perhaps he had been Howard’s one go at easy money. €7.75 had already gone on a full English breakfast at the hotel. It had been a complete rip-off, but Howard had been hungry, and horribly reluctant to leave the protection of the hotel, seeing as what he had planned for the rest of his day.
By lunchtime, the warming effect of the eggs, sausages, and bacon had completely disappeared and Howard was starving right down to his toes. He was cold, too. That sun was deceptive – bright, but with a cold edge. As he put his cardigan and coat back on, he consoled himself with the thought that this was traditionally a business of the night, anyway. Perhaps he wasn’t repulsive, he was just timing it badly. He should go somewhere warm, find some hot, cheap food, and wait it out until nightfall.
After a tip-off from three gentlemen of the Special Brew, he gratefully accompanied them to a free soup kitchen at a cathedral in Trafalgar Square. From there he made his own way onto the Natural History Museum in Kensington. His feet were pretty sore, so he found himself a seat and sat and stared at the reconstruction of a giant sloth.
The model was nine feet tall, with vacant eyes and ridiculously pendulous claws. Howard thought it looked incredibly dim. He wondered how something so large and stupid could ever have existed. Eventually, the bell went for throwing out-time. As Howard stood up, his back gave a twinge. A penalty of being so tall, he supposed – his father had been moaning about it for years. As he thought of his father, Howard felt his stomach twist. Dad definitely wouldn’t approve of what he was about to attempt to do tonight. But better this than trailing home and admitting defeat. He’d be something some day, he knew he would. He just needed a little time to get there.
King’s Cross was a lot more frightening at night than during the day. As well the screech and fumes of huge double-deckers pulling in and out, there were now dark, empty silences in between mysterious yells. The people hanging around also had changed markedly.
Howard had always been a little afraid of women. For instance, for years he’d had that huge crush on Claire Caldicot. He’d spent hours staring at the back of her school blazer in class, trying to preserve her image for his later, intimate moments. He’d even written a quantity of poetry on the subject of his longing, poetry he was both extremely proud of and yet terrified of anybody else ever finding. It still existed, in his old bedroom at his parents’ house, in an exercise book hidden underneath a pile of X-Men comics. Yet he’d never managed to even talk to her, never mind ask her out.
His fear of Claire Caldicot was as nothing compared to his terror of the woman who was approaching him at that moment. She had massive blonde hair, pointed white high heels, a tiny skirt, and was wearing nothing much else. She also looked about fifty.
“What the bleedin’ fuck you doin’ here, you fuck?” she shouted. “Fuck off! This ain’t your patch! You lot scare off the real punters!”
Howard cowed under her power. “Sorry… I’m so sorry, miss. I didn’t know. Sorry.”
The woman steadied herself on one hip and regarded Howard with a coolness. “You new?”
He nodded quickly. “Yes, thank you. Miss.”
“Aw, love, you don’t want to be here! You won’t get any business. Only aggro. You want to try Piccadilly Circus. Although I dunno…” She shook her head. Each strand of her teased blonde hair stayed in place, like prickles on a cactus. “How old you, love?”
“I’m eighteen, miss. Eighteen last week.”
She made a sloppy clicking noise with one side of her mouth. “You look older than that. And those sort like them young, “ she said, bluntly, with no trace of irony, the make-up thick across the lines on her face.
So that was the night that Howard discovered that being eighteen meant you were already practically over the hill, especially if you were a lad who was tall and awkward and big boned with it. And his suspicions had been right. That man from last night had been deluded. Howard wasn’t ‘beautiful’, there were plenty of boys round here who were much more attractive, or at least the clients seemed to think so. He saw them being propositioned in the distance, their shadow-heads meeting in discussion. Cars pulled up along Shaftesbury Avenue, battling the traffic to reach the kerb and bear them in. A few cars scouted next to Howard, then took off running when as soon as he made tentative attempts towards them. Howard thought of going to one of the other boys, try to get himself some tips. But that would be as good as asking to poach their business. They’d probably want to hurt him, or at least scare him off.
Eventually, a silver Mercedes pulled up in a gap in the traffic beside Howard. A man wound down a window. He had sandy, thinning hair and a ruddy, freckled face. “I haven’t seen you round before,” he shouted across.
After a few seconds, Howard realised that he might have something in his favour after all.
“Your first time here?” the man yelled.
Howard walked over. “Yes, sir.” He figured he might as well lay it on thick. “I’m new. This is my very first time. For everything.”
The man laughed. “Well, that’s a goddamn lie. But get in anyway.”
Howard opened the passenger door, insulted. He’d been as good as telling the truth. He really had.
Once he was seated, the sandy-haired man looked him up and down. Howard must have passed primary inspection, because he was asked, “So how much for anal?”
Howard froze in horror. Anal. That meant arse, didn’t it? That was the kind of thing you joked about, the subject of graffiti. He hadn’t quite believed people did arse stuff during sex, not on a regular basis. Stupid, but he simply wasn’t prepared for it.
The man drummed his fingers across his steering wheel. “Come on, stop wasting my time.”
“God, I don’t know, I’m sorry,” admitted Howard, it coming out in a rush. “What you just said – I don’t know what it is. I mean, I know where it is, of course…. I just don’t know if you ‘re going to do it to me or I’m doing it to you, or how you do it, or how much to ask for….”
“Christ… is this some kind of act to get more money?”
“No!”
“Okay.” The sandy-haired man set his Merc into first and it purred as it left the kerb. “Well, then. It’s twenty five quid, and I’m doing it to you.”
Howard hadn’t been cheated, as he was to find out later. But he was beginning to suspect that sex was a lot less fun than people had made it out to be. It wasn’t so much the act itself. That was uncomfortable, yes, and even painful, depending. But at least then you were concentrating on actually doing it, on getting it over and done with. That wasn’t the real problem. It was afterwards, when you kept getting flashbacks of it again and again, and you’d only been paid for the once. It hardly seemed fair.
But on that very same night Howard Moon had paid sex for the third time. Then the fourth. He’d his fifth time, too, and stayed overnight with the client, which earned the most of all. It seemed that he was on a roll, and when he counted up was incredulous to find that he’d made a whole two hundred and five pounds, more money than a month’s pay at his old job.
It was on his third night as a male prostitute that Howard acquired a chicken. He was standing in front of a tourist-tat shop, not getting any interest at all, when he felt a tug on his sleeve and heard a bright, thin voice. “Hey, you! I seen you yesterday! What’s your name?”
“Howard,” said Howard, cautiously. He turned around. It was a young boy, looking barely old enough for secondary school, never mind to be on the streets. Later on, Howard found out he was actually fourteen – but still young enough to qualify as a chicken.
“How old’s you, then?”
Howard didn’t know if he should say, worried that his advanced age might get back to clients and business would turn even worse. But the boy was determined to find out and Howard wasn’t very good at lying.
“Eighteen? Brill-iant! That’s brill-iant, that is!” He had a distinct Welsh accent. His delicate face filled up with big, excited eyes.
“Why is it brilliant?” asked Howard, suspiciously.
“Cos you have to be eighteen, see!” The boy tugged Howard’s sleeve again. “It’s a right pain, it is! But now I’ve met you, so you can do it for me. Brilliant!”
This was Steve. He was from Aberystwyth, and he wanted Howard to rent a studio apartment for him in Clerkenwell. You had to be at least eighteen to sign the tenancy agreement. That was the law.
So far, Howard hadn’t felt he was doing anything wrong or immoral. And as for his clients – well, they gave him money, so he didn’t really want to think about their morality too hard either. Some of them had been openly appreciative. That was part of what drew Howard to it in those early days, although he wasn’t to realise it until later.
On the other hand, the men who picked up Steve – Howard knew exactly what he thought of them. Steve was still a child, very obviously so, and they were filthy paedophiles. However, Steve was also pulling in at least three times as much cash as Howard was. When Steve moved in, he had a mountain of stuff with him in black bin liners. Clothes from clients. Pairs of flashy trainers, also from clients. CDs he didn’t even have a stereo for, thick solid gold chains, even cologne. Howard picked it up a bottle and smelt it. It was rank. What sort of man buys aftershave for a boy who looks about eleven? The same kind who wants sex with him, he supposed.
The first time Howard slept with Steve, he was terrified. He put it off for two days first, sleeping on the floor beside him. Steve just looked over and called him an idiot. But there was only one bed in the studio flat, and while the floor was cold and hard, the bed was double. So eventually Howard crept in beside the little body and pulled the covers across. Steve immediately snuggled up, smelling of sleep and sex.
It wasn’t that Howard was worried he was gay. He knew he fancied men sometimes, or he had, that long week ago before this all started. Not that he’d ever dreamed he’d ever do anything about it back then. But now he’d stopped feeling even the slightest attraction to them. Or to women, come to think of it. Somehow it had all just disappeared. Only please God, let him not have become a paedophile instead. What other reason could there be for this? Why else was here, in bed with Steve? Why was he aching to be close to him, horribly grateful for every touch of his little body?
“You cry too much, you do.” Steve put a thin arm round Howard, who was hiccupping a sob. “You’ll never last.”
“Sor… ry…” bawled Howard.
“There’s a boy, you go on now,” said Steve, smoothing him on the back.
And Howard let his body have its way and pushed himself up close to Steve, and Steve felt warm and wonderful. Thank God – it was just loneliness, he realised. He’d been so incredibly lonely.
When they woke up it was late afternoon. The light was streaming through the window and they shared a plate of toast, Steve immediately striking up a spliff afterwards, and Howard found himself feeling a lot better than he’d done so for ages.
[nextpage title=”Chapter Two”]
Chapter Two
Having to approach strange men every day had given Howard a new, forced sort of confidence.
So when he saw a girl sitting alone at a table at the Natural History Museum, absorbed in a book, he hardly hesitated before advancing with his tray. He felt incredibly suave and smooth as he walked up to her – but this was the new him, with possibilities around every corner.
“Anyone sitting here?”
She just shrugged.
To the new him, that was as good as an invitation. He sat down, unloading his soup and trying to exude whatever it was about him that made old men want to pay him to touch them. Perhaps the same thing would work on women as well. “What’s that you’re reading?”
She looked up through the top edge of her glasses. Her hair was dark, drawn severely to the back of her head and she wore a striking geometric necklace. Now that he was closer, Howard also noticed that she was a good few years older than him. He didn’t mind that, it gave her poise. In fact, she bore an uncanny resemblance to an older Claire Caldicot, the hopeless object of Howard’s schooldays. But he didn’t realise that. All he knew was that he wanted to impress her.
She flicked the book’s cover over at him. “Men of Action: The Role of the Hero in Greek myth and legend.”
“That’s like me!” said Howard, realising as the words left his mouth that it was rubbish. “I’m a man of action! I do great things, I accomplish tasks…” He felt her steady gaze and wilted. “That is, I’m going to…”
She raised one eyebrow. “You’re going to decapitate a seven-headed monster with your sword, are you?”
“Uhhh…”
“Clean out the king’s stables with a mighty river?”
“Well…”
“Or did you mean something else?”
“Probably something else,” conceded Howard, but thrilled all the same. Here they were, actually having a conversation. He wondered how long he could make it last.
“Yaaah,” she drawled, sounding very posh and Southern to Howard’s ears. “I don’t think so. What can you have done with your life? You’re just a little boy.”
The very night before, a man with a droopy moustache and a beige raincoat had told Howard that he was ‘sorry, too old’ right up to his face. And there’d been others who’d turned away without explanation. Howard had stumbled the frozen pavements until two am, cold and rejected. Just one single blow job, that was it. Just ten quid. To be ‘a little boy’ again felt surprisingly reassuring, and he almost thanked her before he realised she hadn’t meant it that way at all.
“No,” he declared, fiddling with a spoon. “It’s not like that at all. You don’t know a thing. I’m a deeply complicated person. I’ve so much depth you wouldn’t believe. You’d need a hundred Greek heroes with a hundred rivers each before they could wash away my mental shit away.”
Probably his worst chat up line, ever.
But she laughed, amused and staccato. And her name was Annette.
He’d considered sending himself a postcard – but that still wouldn’t solve the problem. That still left the utility bill, and the library wanted both as proof of residence before they’d let him join. The electric was on a meter, they had no phone, and nobody wrote to him here because nobody knew where he was. And Howard desperately wanted to borrow some books so he could read up on Greek myths and legends before he saw Annette again.
In the meantime, he bought three reference works from Hatchard’s, satisfyingly thick as they sat on the floor by the double bed. Steve lolled there most of the daytime, smoking and listening to music on his newly-bought stereo. It was good to have goals, Howard thought, it was far too easy just to drift about. Even if his current goal was only to get to the end of a verse translation of the Odyssey.
So far The Odyssey seemed to involve a boatload of ancient Greek soldiers sailing about the Aegean, stealing other people’s oxen, cutting the ‘choice parts’ off said oxen and then barbequing the bits as gifts to the gods, all in dactylic hexameter.
Howard stretched out his arms and put the book to the side. Perhaps he’d read more later. He looked over at his friend.
“You’d really like her, Steve. She knows all about ancient history. Philosopher kings. Sirens, voodoo and witches. She’s so inspiring. She goes into the past and milks it.”
Steve took a pull, holding the smoke in his lungs before he replied. His voice went all squeaky. “Yeah. She sounds nice. Lovely.”
“I’ve seen her every single day since we met. Can you believe that? Isn’t that incredible?”
“Mmmm.”
“Only, Steve, when you meet her, I mean, she’s really going to like you, but what we do nights – would you not mention it? Please?” It wasn’t like he and Steve talked about it anyway, at least not in the flat, as if by mutual agreement. They hadn’t brought round any clients either, or at least not yet. But then, they’d been there two weeks. “I mean, I’ve hardly been working long, so it’s not like she needs to know. And it’s only temporary.” And he hadn’t been doing so much of it recently, either. Although not by choice, it was a kind of relief. “Besides, I’ve got so many other plans.”
Steve swivelled his head back. He looked at Howard from upside down from the edge of the bed. “Plans?”
But that was where Howard always faltered. He knew he was destined to do something, and it was going to be magnificent, but the rest of the details were as yet evading him.
Steve’s tiny ribcage went up and down. He started to gasp. “Are you going away? Howard? Are you? Are those your plans? Don’t be going away! The flat’s in your name! You can’t leave now!”
“Steve – calm down. It’s a panic attack.” This had happened once already, when Steve had done five or six hash pipes one after another on an empty stomach. “Calm down, slow breaths. Yes, that’s right. Breathe. Good.”
He took away Steve’s pipe and held it in the air, red-ended, but not taking any himself. The only time he’d tried it, he’d spent ten minutes not getting any hit and then an hour throwing up. Anyway, Steve didn’t seem to mind getting high on his own – the more gear for himself, he said. “Hold on, Steve – you can have it back in a minute. Don’t worry. And no, I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”
After Thursday, Howard knew it was all over.
He loved their flat, he really did. But at the same time, it was probably not the best place to bring someone like Annette. It was small, so small that the double bed jutted right onto the kitchenette lino, there were mouse droppings scattered on the painted-over window frames, and the communal bathroom was shared with three other floors.
No, better go somewhere else. So Howard arranged the first time the three of them should meet would be in town, and chose the film carefully, a nice culty director with great reviews. He sincerely hoped that she’d like it.
Just before they left, Steve got out a plastic bag, held it high by one corner, and began tipping a fine white powder down his throat. Howard had no idea what was going on at first – he had to ask. Then he was appalled.
“Relax, now! I’s always doing some whizz before I go out, isn’t it?”
“I’ve never seen you!”
“Well, I do. It keeps me sharp, see. Keeps me up so I can watch out for trouble.”
Howard clenched his fingers through his hair. “It’s just the movies! In the afternoon! It’s not a war zone over at the Odeon – you don’t need ammunition!”
“But I got to meet go this girl of yours, so same difference, I reckons.” Steve did his shoes up. “We going now? I’m ready. You ready?”
Howard was poised to sulk, even call the whole thing off. But after ten minutes walking side by side, curbing his strides to the smaller ones, he had to admit that Steve seemed unaffected.
“I does it all the time, I does. I told you so. See? And I only did a bit, because I knew you wouldn’t like it if I was right off me head.”
His childish voice hitched as he walked, panting slightly, his legs a blur as he pretended that he could keep up with Howard. Then he smiled an buoyant little smile. He had to crane his head right back to do it, the only way he could make eye contact right at the top of Howard’s six feet two.
“Okay, then,” muttered Howard. He wasn’t any less anxious, but now he also had the crazy urge to hug pick Steve up and give him a great big hug. Damn him for being so cute, and damn him for knowing it.
Annette was already outside the cinema, elegant in a long dark skirt and tailored coat. She looked understatedly wonderful. Howard’s spirits rose. This was going to go well.
But after a few minutes, Steve was already bored listening to the ‘adults’, as Howard tried to pretend to Annette that he was au fait with the cinematic traditions of film noir and European fairy tales. He began to jiggle up and down on his white Adidas, his little head a good two feet below the others
Steve was wearing one of his thickest gold curb chains around his neck, perhaps in honour of the occasion. As he bounced up and down it escaped from inside his brief little white vest, which in turn was working free from his tracksuit bottoms. Howard caught Annette’s eyes flicker downwards and froze. Steve’s bare shoulders, his fragile collar bone, his spindly little chest – how had he not noticed before how much frail childish body was on show? As for the gold chain – oh God – perhaps it was some commonly understood sign of underage prostitution he didn’t know about? Howard hunched his back, crippled by fear. But Annette appeared not to take any notice, and simply continued being politeness itself. Disturbingly so, in fact.
It wasn’t until they’d got their tickets, and Steve had headed off to the queue for a Coke, that she finally rounded on Howard.
“That’s your flatmate?” Howard saw her arch into the attack and prepared himself. “That child?”
“No, really. He’s a lot older than he looks.”
“What, older than eleven? Twelve?”
“No, I told you. He just looks young. Actually, he’s fourteen.” As soon as Howard saw the horrified look on her face, he knew he should have said something a lot older.
“My God! Howard! How does that work? You’re a twenty six year old man, and living with a fourteen year old child?”
That had been one of Howard’s more successful ploys – adding eight years to his age. He’d suspected that Annette was quite a bit older, so he’d planned it so she would tell her age first. That way he could say he was exactly the same, and she couldn’t claim he was too young for her. It didn’t seem like such a good idea right now.
“What about his parents? Do they know? I can see by your expression they don’t. He’s a runaway, Howard. You’re living with a runaway, and his parents must be worried sick.” She leaned over and hissed in his face, “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” It was the first time he’d ever heard her swear.
Steve came back, carrying not just the Coke he’d gone for, but a dangerously full box of popcorn and some bulging pic-n-mix. “You lot not getting anything? You’re mad, you are. You got to get your eats in at the flicks.” He checked his edibles. “Hey, Howard. Can I’ve another fiver? Forgot the ice cream, didn’t I.”
Howard handed it over, then cringed as he felt Annette’s eyes on the transaction. He always paid for everything when he and Steve went out, it didn’t mean a thing. It was just a reflex kind of action, being taller and so probably reminding Steve of an adult. It wasn’t like he was really Steve’s keeper or anything. But Howard’s heart began thumping, and even though he knew it was Steve who actually paid all the rent, a horrible, telltale red grew all across his face.
The ice cream was obtained and devoured with relish. Then Steve started work on the rest of his haul.
Politely, he offered Annette some fizzy cherries first. She waved them aside with the back of her hand, crouching down so that her face was more at his level. “No, thank you, Steve. So, how did you two meet?”
“I came up to him, like.” Steve stuffed a fistful of popcorn into his mouth. Annette waited patiently while he chewed. “Mmm-hmmm. I came up to Howard, see, and asked him to get me a flat.” There were bits of popcorn between Steve’s teeth as he grinned.
“And where were you sleeping before?”
“Didn’t have a place. Got kicked out.”
“From your parents’ house?”
“No, from Uncle Trevor’s. I liked it there. But then Uncle Trevor met Sal, and I was out. Though he didn’t know, but I still kept my stuff in binbags round his back. I’s clever like that.”
“Your Uncle Trevor – is he in contact with your parents? Have you let him know where you moved to?”
Howard was guessing that ‘Uncle’ Trevor was no kind of uncle at all, and that they were moving towards territory he didn’t want to enter.
But luckily, Steve was now busy with his sweets. He got two milk teeth and wedged them down over his own upper and lower ones, a tricky procedure that prevented him from talking for a while. Then, when he had his new, sweetie teeth firmly in place, he pulled back his lips to show them off. This made him drool from the corners of his mouth.
Howard saw Annette twitch her mouth in distaste and felt a bit sick. Steve was his mate. He was the one he shared cheesey beany crispy toast with in the afternoon, a dish they’d invented together, all on their own. Steve was the one who’d been there waiting in the flat, no questions asked, the night Howard been cornered and robbed. No damage done, but Howard had shaken like water with every step he’d run all the way home. How could she attack Steve like this? “Come on, what’s with all the questions? Give the lad a break!”
But Annette turned towards Howard as if he were a backward child. “Excuse me. Howard, I just was in the middle of a conversation wit– no! Don’t! Don’t touch me!”
Howard recoiled, aghast. Oh God, why had he done that? Grabbed at Annette’s hand, completely out of the blue, when he’d never even dared touch her before?
They went down to the screening, and it didn’t get much better. In the corridor, Steve discovered a cardboard promotional cut-out and launched himself at it like a hurricane, clinging and trying to spin it around. It was just mucking about, and usually Howard would have been right in there too. Not so now, with Annette looking on. Howard wished he could stop it all, tear the cardboard away from Steve, remove him from the centre of Annette’s disapproval. But that would only make things worse. Steve would just play-fight back, jumping on Howard and grabbing all over.
So all Howard did was stand, helpless and miserable. Eventually, Steve, after many a disdainful glance at Howard, decided it was time to lose interest. The three of them moved on.
Finally, they got to their seats. Howard made sure to sit firmly between them – at least he could do that. Then, in the flickering light of forthcoming attractions, Steve pulled out a bag and started to tip it towards his mouth. In horror, Howard recognised it as containing the white powder from earlier.
He shoved his hand around Steve’s ear. “No! Put that away!”
“Bloody fuck off, Howard! You nearly made me spill my whizz!”
“Just do it later? Just not in front of her. Please?”
“Her, is it? You’ve gone all boring. Why’d you have to go all boring?”
“Come on, Steve!”
“No, fuck this. Fuck it all. I’m off.”
And Howard didn’t even try to argue, just watched in the darkness as Steve picked up his jacket and left.
After a few moments, Annette leant over. “Why did he take his coat to go to the loo? Is he alright?”
“Mmm,” replied Howard, non-committally.
But twenty minutes on, when Steve still hadn’t returned, and even though he knew it was a lost cause, Howard found himself being obliged by Annette into making one half of a search party.
First she made him check the men’s toilets, and stood outside until he’d done it. Twice, once on each floor. Then he had to wait beside her as she asked the door staff. Yes, they’d seen a young boy in a vest and tracksuit bottoms leaving half an hour ago – they’d wondered what he was doing out all on his own.
Outside it was bright and sunny, still the middle of the afternoon, with hundreds of people rushing by. Even Annette had to admit there wasn’t much hope, not now, not if Steve didn’t want to be found. Nonetheless, she still made them both walk around for another half an hour, scanning streets and looking in the shops and cafés.
“He’s probably just gone home,” offered Howard.
“Did he say that’s what he was going to do?”
“Well, no…”
“I just don’t get you! Why aren’t you more worried, Howard! I mean, he’s only thirteen!”
“Fourteen.”
“As if that makes a difference! Is it too early to call the police yet?”
“No! Don’t! I mean… I really don’t think he’d like that.”
She looked at Howard out of the corner of her eye, then glanced quickly away. “He seems very attached to you. I noticed that. You give him money. And your flat only has one bedroom, only one bed. Steve let it slip. So where do you sleep? In the bed?”
“Yes…”
“And where does Steve sleep?”
Too late, Howard realised he should have pretended they were cousins or something. Related. But they looked nothing like each other, there was the problem of the accents. Besides, Annette would never believe it now, not when he hadn’t mentioned it before. “Well… he’s my mate. We’re best mates.”
She turned round to face him. “That’s the thing – I believe you, Howard! But you have to see that he’s so young. He should be safe in school, not hanging out in the middle of London! And I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but there are men who are into young boys, who prey on them, who come into London to search them out. There was an article on it in The Guardian last week.”
“Oh. Really? I didn’t get around to reading that one yet.”
She looked at him. He was shuffling even more than usual, and flushing, high on his cheekbones and blotchy across his neck. She shook her head. “I like you Howard, I do. But, suddenly, I feel that I know nothing about you. For instance, you told me that you’re on a year out. From what? Doing what?”
One of Annette’s friends was in India, travelling ‘on his year out’. Annette had talked about it, and seemed to approve. So Howard had borrowed the idea for himself.
Annette saw from Howard’s panicked face that she wasn’t going to get a reply. “You see? I have absolutely no idea! I mean, do you even like me? Why do you keep chasing after me?”
“I do like you! I think you’re amazing!”
Annette gave a kind of snort. “You do? Amazing?”
Howard hoped she wasn’t going to burst into tears. She looked as though she might.
“How would I have known? I mean, you obviously don’t fancy me.”
Howard’s heart leapt with sudden inspiration. “You want me to kiss you? I will! I mean, we can kiss right now – if you want to, that is!”
“Oh, Howard!” She looked at him in disbelief, lifting her palms upwards and dropping them again. “God, what an idiot I’ve been. You’re not twenty six, are you? No. It’s obvious that you’re not. What are you, twenty two?”
He said nothing.
“You’re twenty two?”
“Yes. No… I’m twenty… I’m not… I’m eighteen. Eighteen. Sorry. I’m eighteen. I’m really sorry.”
“You see! How can I trust you when it’s going to be like this?”
Howard grew indignant. “You can! Of course you can trust me!”
“You say that, but what does it really mean?” She went over to a bench, sat down, and put her head in her hands. She made a sad, choking noise. “It’s my own fault, really.”
“No!” protested Howard, unclear what she was talking about, but hating her to be so upset.
With a sigh, she smoothed her hair away from her face. She sat back up. “No, it’s true. Why do you think I’ve had so much time to be with you? It’s so hard, all this running around, filling out forms. The interviews, the rejections. I suppose I just wanted an escape. But you try looking for work with one degree in Ancient History and a masters in Conservation Studies.” Her fingers found another falling strand of hair and deftly tucked it back. “I have to leave London by the end of the week, anyway. My friend Sue wants me off her floor.” She saw his devastated face. “I’m so sorry, Howard. That’s why I never had you round. She wouldn’t allow it. I was too embarrassed to say.”
“You could find a job! Stay, please, stay!”
“Oh, receptionist, sales assistant, working in a restaurant – but I might as well do that back home. No, I want to do conservation, it’s what I’m trained for. And for that, there’s only so many jobs about, and everyone’s in there for life. I thought if I went around, made some contacts – and I did manage to get a few leads. It’s not all been a waste. The Trust has one programme and there’s a museum in Oxford with the curator about to go on maternity leave…”
Howard thought of his own nebulous plans, the way his life was going, and was once again impressed by her drive.
“No. It’s over, Howard. We shouldn’t see each other any more.”
“But I love you!”
Annette closed her eyes briefly. “No you don’t. You hardly know me. I’m sorry, really I am. You’re funny, and sweet, Howard. Really, I was flattered. I liked you, very much… if I ever knew you.”
There was silence between them.
“You’ll meet someone your own age one day, just wait – you’ll see,” she said gently, standing up. “No, don’t follow me.”
“No, I don’t see! No, don’t go! Please, don’t go!”
“Just promise, as soon as you get word about Steve, you’ll leave a message. You have to let me know. No – we’re still over, you understand.”
And she wouldn’t accept any of his pleading, his arguments, or try to soothe his anguish.
Howard began thinking quickly. If she left now – that was it, for good. He didn’t have her address, they’d always met up by prior arrangement, and if there’d been any need to make a change, he’d stood in evil-smelling phone boxes and left a message on her friend’s answerphone. She never contacted him. So Howard now found an old receipt, desperately wrote down the address of his Clerkenwell flat, and pushed it into her unwilling hand. It was the very first time he’d given someone his new address.
Then he sat and watched her go. Her back had a distinctive sway, tall and slender, her head was slightly awkward, and every now and then as she moved into the distance, her hand reached up to her face.
He wanted someone to shout at, and by rights, that person should be Steve.
But when he arrived back, the flat was empty. With a growing feeling of dread, Howard ran around, checking the bathroom, the staircase, even the tiny back yard. Perhaps Annette had been right. Perhaps Steve really was gone, and not just sulking. Really missing, somewhere out there upon the streets.
He tried to calm himself. It’s not like Steve’s not used to it, he told himself. I mean, Steve was out there most nights anyway. Somehow, that didn’t seem to help. This time he’d made Steve do it. This time it was all his fault.
In a frenzy, Howard started tossing stuff around – clothes, shoes, CDs, trying to get any sort of a idea of where Steve could have gone. There – he’d found something. On the bottom of Steve’s stash tin, in badly-formed letters, scratched by hand – GERWYN. Who or what was Gerwyn?
There was nothing else.
Just in case Steve showed up, Howard made himself wait in the flat for as long as he could bear it. Then, round about the time Steve sometimes went out to work, he walked into town.
Some of the other boys used to hang together, waiting for business while passing fags amongst themselves. Mostly, Howard tried to avoid these lot – they terrified him, even the young ones. Perhaps especially the young ones.
Tonight he steeled himself, and asked around.
“Who’s that? Dunno what you’re talking about.”
“No.”
“No.” And so on, and so on.
At the fifth clump, he got lucky.
“No, I know him, the little Welsh one!”
“Didn’t think he was called Steve…”
No, you’re thinking of Gav.”
“Fuckin’ no way!”
“Fuckin’ is.”
“Anyway, haven’t seen him. Not for weeks. Why d’you want to know?”
“Thanks,” said Howard, and sped away, aware of five pairs of eyes itching the back of his shoulders.
The area they all worked in wasn’t very big. When Howard had walked it twice, asking at random to start with, and just looking the next, he noticed he was gathering curious stares, especially from those he’d asked the first time around. He began to feel very conspicuous and very cowardly.
Suddenly a police car went by. It flashed its lights, then turned on its sirens. It blared. Howard jumped into a shop and wedged himself behind a display of Scottish tartans, right at the back.
That was something he hadn’t thought of before – what if Steve had been picked up by the police? They’d never really bothered Howard. He’d just pretended to be walking along like a casual member of the public, and that had seemed to do the job. Presumably it wasn’t so easy to fake if you were only four feet something and out on your own on a schoolnight.
Howard started to shake. What if he lost him? He might never see his Steve, ever again. Or what if Steve had been picked up, and told the police about Howard? The police might tell his parents in turn. And his parents would find out that Howard had been doing men for money. Howard crammed his knuckles in his mouth and bit down hard.
“Excuse me, sir?” It was a female shop assistant, dressed head to toe in tartan – tartan shoes, tartan waistcoat, tartan beret. White shirt with monstrous shoulder pads underneath. “Do you wish to make a purchase, sir?”
No, he didn’t. He just wanted to be out of there, and for this all to have never happened.
Two days later, Howard awoke to a voice coming from above. “Aw now, where’s the toast? You’ve eaten all the toast!”
He rubbed at his eyes. “That you? Steve?”
“Forgot to get the bread in? There’s a twat for you.” It was definitely Steve, his voice sing-song light.
“Sorry, I forgot. I’ll get some now…” Howard struggled to sit up, pushing back the covers. Too late, he remembered he was supposed to be the one doing the telling off, not the other way round – but it was Steve! Back again and sat on the end of the bed. Howard frowned. There were little jagged cuts all across the side of the little chirpy face. Steve’s left eye was bruised and puffy too.
“I’m hungry now, see. Been sat here, watching you snore.”
“Fuck! Steve! What the hell happened?”
Steve just shrugged.
“Where d’you go? I looked everywhere for you! For days! I was everywhere!”
“Yeah, okay. Don’t go on about it, like. So, you going to get the bread in? Are you?”
Howard scratched his scalp, trying to clear his brain. “Why do I have to get it? Haven’t you got any money left?”
Steve shrugged once more. He winced. Then he slowly moved his shoulder downwards. “Nah. Not really. Not on me. Not right now.” He made big, sad eyes, the ones he knew worked so well on Howard. “So are you going to get the bread in? Are you? Only say if you’re not. Cos then I’ll be hungry, see. So very hungry.”
“Christ!” Howard fished out his brown, lace-up shoes, always neatly stored underneath the bed. He shoved them on. “If you insist!”
There was no point in making toast for a sleeping child – but Howard did it anyway. Eight whole slices of it, slathered in marg, and stacked up high on a slightly cracked plate.
As expected, no interest from Steve. Not a hope.
After a while Howard picked up the plate. He waved it about a bit, hoping that the rich, warm smell would bring revival. He swirled it under Steve’s nose. Picked up one slice and went, “Mmmm.”
Still nothing. Steve was face down on the bed, drooling, and as good as dead.
He’d found Steve sprawled like that when he’d had returned from the shops. The slamming of the doors hadn’t awoken him then, and it didn’t seem like anything else was going to wake him for the foreseeable future.
Howard lifted one corner of the duvet. He grunted. It was as he thought. Steve was still fully dressed. Even had his trainers on. Carefully, Howard took them off and arranged them tidily underneath the bed, the way he did for his own.
That was when he noticed that the pillow under Steve’s face had become spotted with blood. It had pushed into the cuts on his cheek and reopened them. Howard stopped mid-stride as he noticed. Then, walking backwards, he took a seat on the one hard dining chair in the flat. His hand went mechanically to his mouth as he began to work his way through the toast on his lap, his eyes on the young little bundle in the bed.
And he began to think.
End Notes: Part Three to follow (the bit with Vince and Fossil in it – finally!)
