Howard Moon, Colon, Investigator

Howard Moon is a down and out private eye. Leroy has gone missing and Vince gets him on the job. Together they get absorbed in the seedy shamanistic underbelly of Camden. AU.

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Chapter Two

Contents

Chapter Two

Like most things in my life, the lift doesn’t really go as planned, and before I know it I’m sitting once more on Vince’s couch as he fixes some drinks.

“I really have to go home,” I announce, and he laughs.

“Sure you wanna catch the train home this time of night? It can be well dangerous.”

“I’m a roughened private eye,” I reply, and he sits next to me, handing me a beer and sipping at his flirtini.

“Still better to hang round here for a while.”

We arrived here twenty minutes ago and he’s already changed his outfit to drainpipes in a slightly different shade of black, and a long see-through green/blue shirt.

“Mr Noir,” I say, “You have an amazing ability to progress into steadily skimpier clothes when you have company.”

He shrugs and swirls his umbrella in his drink.

“Nah,” he replies, “It’s just for you. I wouldn’t even bother changing my shirt if I was having my mum’s sister round for dinner.”

“Well, it’s probably good that you don’t progress in nudity for her.”

He stands up with a grin and wanders over to the kitchen, pulling a tray out from the fridge.

“Leftovers okay?” He calls over to me, and I consent. To the leftovers.

He sticks the tray into the oven, and perches on the bench.

I take a long swig on my beer, staring at the wall.

I can’t help it, my mind just won’t stop dwelling on Vince, and that kiss. That long, deep… slightly distracted kiss.

I hazard a glance at him, and he’s staring at the oven, watching the timer tick down. As if sensing me watching him, he looks over his shoulder at me, with that same, almost constant grin.

“I’ll be right back,” I say to him, putting my beer down on the coffee table, “Where’s your toilet?”

Vince nods his hair to an adjoining room, and I hurry into the loo and lock the door, pulling out my mobile.

“Lester!” I hiss urgently, when he picks up, “I kissed a man, and I think I’m in love.”

There’s silence for a moment on the other end of the line before a wheezing laughter begins.

“Oh, Howard,” Lester says, between chuckles, “Is this like the time that cat licked you on the cheek and you tried to marry it?”

I scowl, and turn the tap on to hide my voice.

“That was a mistake,” I whisper, “It was dark.”

“You crack me up,” Lester says, “you sure haven’t slowed down in your old age!”

“I kissed Vince! My client! Lester, I need your help, does this make me gay?”

“Well,” says Lester slowly, ponderously, “I’d say so.”

And then he hangs up.

I flush the toilet and walk back into the lounge-room.

There’s a tray of re-heated bruschetta on the coffee table and a welcoming looking Vince on the couch, picking bits of fetta off a slice. I stand in the lounge-room archway, and contemplate.

Best to proceed with caution. One kiss doesn’t necessarily have to mean love. Even when I haven’t had one good kiss in as long….as I have.

I walk over, and sit next to Vince, who puts his bruschetta down on the plate, staring at his cheese covered fingers, trying to work out what to do.

“Wipe them on your jeans,” I say, picking up a piece and taking a hungry bite.

He looks at me with absolute horror.

“Lick it off?” I suggest, trying to backtrack, “What’s wrong with fetta anyway?”

“Do you have any idea how fattening cheese is?” He replies, cautiously poking his tongue out and touching it to a glob of cheese on his forefinger, then pulls back, looking concerned.

I look down at my stomach, rounded over the top of my trousers.

“Nope,” I answer, and he points his finger at me, moving it towards my mouth, and pressing it gently against my lip.

“You’re safe from the calories,” he says, “it’s too late for you.”

“Thanks,” I reply sarcastically, and push his hand away, “Just go grab a napkin.”

“Can’t be bothered,” He shrugs, and an image flashes into my head of me grabbing his wrist towards me and sucking that perfectly manicured finger into my mouth. My tongue would slide over every inch of it as I lick away ever single particle of the offensive cheese, and he’d stare at me with those huge, blue eyes, that evil grin on his lips, while I–

I stand up and walk over to the bench, grabbing him a tissue. He pouts as he takes it from me, wiping himself clean. Moments later, he stands and walks over to the kitchen, chucking the tissue in the bin, and pouring a couple of drinks.

“Drink this,” he says, handing me the martini glass.

“What is it?” I ask, staring into its milky depths.

“Baileys,” he replies. “Drink it.”

I drink it down, blanching slightly as it burns its way down my throat.

He stands up, and pours me another, taking the bottle back to the couch.

“Come on, Howard,” he reasons, “You need to relax a bit.”

We sit on that couch for a long while, eating and drinking, and Vince sits there looking steadily more alluring.

The bottle is already half gone when we start, and between us it doesn’t really go far, but by the time it’s empty my mind is happily foggy, and a realisation comes with the blurred clarity of this state of mind, as I look at Vince, and his chest and stomach, barely concealed at all by his “shirt”, and that realisation is that I don’t love him after all.

This thought strikes me like an epiphany, and in many ways it is, as I look at him, curved against the curl of the couch, moving closer and closer to me with every happy fit of giggles that bursts from him.

I don’t have to be a swan, I realise, and have one mate forever, sir. He laughs at some joke he’s just made that I didn’t bother listening to, and his head ducks down, and looks up, eyes sparkling. I reach my hand out, and I don’t even feel bold, because it’s just too easy just to cup his smiling face and kiss him.

And I know that I’m not going to be met with any resistance, and he kisses back eagerly, moving onto all fours on the couch, one hand heavy on my leg.

I pull him closer, and he breaks away, crawling closer, and kneeling, one hand balancing himself on my shoulder, the other against my chest as he starts to kiss me again, deeply.

The plate of bruschetta goes cold as we sit there, him and his practised mouth, me exploring every inch of it.

Eventually, we break apart to grab our breath, and he drops his head back to look at the ceiling as he grins.

“Told you you needed to relax,” he gasps, and quickly straddles me, moving in for another brief peck before smirking, flicking his hair back.

“Is that a gun in your pocket?” He asks huskily, “Or are you just happy to see me?”

He leans forward, and my pleasantly aching erection nestles between his thighs, becoming aware of Vince’s own.

I grab him by the back of the neck, and pull him into a hard kiss. He moans, and presses himself bodily against me, arms wrapping around my neck before I freeze, and push him away.

“What now?!” He gasps, exasperated, as I quickly pull off my jacket, and unattach my holster, throwing it, and my gun, onto the other couch.

“There was a gun in my pocket,” I explain, and pull him back close to me. For a moment there’s a flash of something I think is fear in his eyes, but I quickly realise I’m wrong.

His voice is low and husky when he says, “That is so hot,” and kisses me hard, mouth closed, before climbing off the couch, and standing up.

“Where are you…?”

He winks at me, and pushes the coffee table out of the way, before kneeling between my knees.

And then the world blurs for a second as I realise.

“Vince…” I say, and he smiles even brighter than I’m ever seen him.

“You called me Vince!”

“Don’t get used to it, Mr Noir,” I reply as he laughs, and runs a hand firmly over my clothed hard-on.

I groan, and my head falls against the couch back, rushing.

“Vince,” I say, that blush creeping back into my cheeks, “I’ve never… had, you know…relations, with anyone.”

His eyes widen. “What? Never? Not once? Nothing?”

My face is burning.

“I’m a swan,” I say lamely.

As his fingers fumble around the buttons of my trousers, I feel my eyes glaze over. This doesn’t feel like its happening to me, it feels like its happening to someone else, and I’m just watching from an incredible vantage point.

Vince pulls Howard Moon’s trousers slowly down, gazing up at him under a thick fringe, and I feel my breath get trapped in my throat.

“Don’t worry,” says Vince, “I respect that you’ve not gone beyond the kiss.”

His tongue slides up my cock, and I realise I’m trembling, even as I go light-headed with pleasure.

I feel like I should be doing something, but I don’t know what to do, so I just wrap my fingers through his hair and moan. Moaning is what I should do when someone is sliding their wet tongue around the head of my cock, right?

I think he’s encouraged, because he’s looking up at me again while licking his lips and smirking.

“You cool?” Vince asks, his lips pressed lightly to the tip of my erection.

I just… well, I just groan. He knows I mean it as an affirmation.

His lips open, soft and damp and slide down, enveloping me in his mouth.

It’s obscene, and my eyes squeeze shut as my hands curl in his hair. All these years. All these years of “Don’t touch me”, and “Forever, sir”. All these years, and this is what I’ve been missing. This obscene, warm, perverse, incredible feeling.

It’s only been a couple of minutes, but a sound escapes my lips that I didn’t know I could make (and I’m not positive is entirely sexy), and I can’t stop myself bucking into his mouth, and letting go.

He swallows around me, and, eyes locked on mine, licks me clean.

I’m painfully aware that I’ve barely moved or made a sound other than groans and gurgles, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He just flicks his tongue out around his lips, and stands up, sitting next to me. He plants a swift kiss on my cheek, and winks.

“‘M just off to the loo,” he says, and walks into the adjoining room, un-zipping his jeans as he goes.

I stare at the door he’s behind, and don’t move except to tuck myself into my jeans. My eyes are slightly unfocussed, and my brain seems to be functioning at half its usual capacity.

I hear Vince let out a sound through the thin wall, somewhere between a moan and a whimper, and I shut my eyes.

What have I got myself into? The question pounds through my head with the alcohol, questioning every aspect of my life. Drug rings, gentle-men’s clubs, sexual encounters that wouldn’t be out of place in ancient Greek theatre.

Howard Moon, I challenge myself, what ever happened to the quiet nights in your bed with some Gogol and a photo of Ms Gideon?

In a few short days, they’ve seemed to walk straight out the door with a swish of the hips. Much like the way Vince is walking back into the room, and wandering back over to the kitchen.

“You look worried,” he says over his shoulder.

Worried? Yeah, I guess. Maybe I’m just over thinking. Maybe things’ll be back to normal once this case is over.

Maybe, as Vince seems to think as he comes back to the couch, holding a pair of glasses, I just need another drink.

I hold my hand out for one, but he doesn’t give it to me.

“C’mon,” he says, “It’s cold ‘n here.” He turns his back and walks into his bedroom. I follow cautiously.

“Don’t worry,” he laughs, “I’m not going to bum you or nuffin’.”

I step into the room after him, and he hands me the drink and closes the door. He turns an electric fireplace on, and I look round the room.

It’s not messy, but there are clothes everywhere. It’s like stepping into a jungle. In addition to the walk-in wardrobe on the far wall, which he seems to have run out of space in, there are beams across the roof that have coat-hangers covered in jackets and accessories hanging off them.

I duck and weave through the canopy of garments, and sit on the bed, the only object in the room that isn’t wearable apart from the mirror lining one whole wall.

He pauses in front of the mirror, pulling off his shirt. Switching it for a fluffy white dressing-gown, he shimmies out of his jeans.

I glance at the clock; it’s nearly three in the morning.

Vince grins at me and climbs onto the bed, crawling past me to the side that’s against the wall. He sits up against the pillows, takes a drink, and puts his glance on the windowsill.

“Get comfy, Howard,” he says, kneeling up and pulling me properly onto the bed. I put my glass down next to his, as his soft fingers slide up my shirt and unbutton it, helping me shrug it off.

He plants a brief kiss to my lips, and settles down again, motioning for me to lie too.

I do, and he passes me my drink. I gulp some down, and prop myself up on my elbow, looking at him.

“Have enough clothes?” I ask.

He laughs. “Not by a long shot. This is just this season’s stuff. Last season’s gears packed away in boxes under the bed. Some of it’s nice; I’m hoping it’ll become retro soon.”

“Won’t you have to wait twenty or thirty years?”

“Nah,” Vince says, “Fashions speeding up. I’m giving it six to nine months.”

My brain slows down to a near sleep pace as we talk, and I feel myself drifting off. Vince’s voice carries on as I make sounds of assent and interest, but eventually he quietens, and as the sun begins to peek over the buildings of Camden, we both fall asleep.

It’s one in the afternoon, according to the ridiculously fluorescent digital clock on the windowsill, and my gaze is trained on the ceiling. One of my hands is going to sleep where they’re both nestled behind my head, and one of my legs is going to sleep where Vince’s has it pinned down.

I sigh, and Vince stirs. One of his arms is draped across my stomach, and his fingers tap against my ribs as he grins and hoarsely mumbles, “Alright?”

“Yeah,” I yawn, unsure. “I should get going…”

“Where to?” Vince asks, stretching and rolling away from me.

His dressing gown was tossed to the end of the bed last night, along with my jeans, as we climbed under the blankets and fell asleep. My practically naked body seems cold from where his practically naked body has relinquished contact.

“I reckon I’m going to go home, make a few calls from that address book, maybe pay Saboo a visit, but later I think I’ll head by the copy centre. I reckon the guy there knows more than he’s likely to admit… at least without a little ‘encouragement’, if you know what I mean.”

Vince snorts. “Your tough guy talk is terrible,” he says, laughter in his voice.

My mouth twists into a scowl and I sit up, reaching down the bed for my trousers. I turn away as I pull them on, conscious of his eyes on me.

His hand slides around my waist to rest on my stomach. I lift myself off the bed briefly to pull my jeans all the way on, and focus on doing them up, as his hand moves up and around my chest, and he wriggles forward till he’s sitting right behind me.

His lips are on my neck.

“Look, Mr Noir–”

“Oh come off it!” He snaps, and his hand stops moving, but instead presses hard against my chest, pulling me against him.

“Okay,” I say quickly, “Sorry, Vince. Can I just… I don’t entirely… What’s going on here exactly?”

“Who cares?”

“I care.”

He sighs, warm air exhaling against my skin.

“I’m just having some fun,” he says, his hand going back to tracing careless patterns on my skin, “with someone who’s doing something good for me. What’s going on here for you?”

I look at the floor, pretending to look for my shirt.

“I don’t know,” I reply, “I’m just…” You’re the only person who’s ever shown interest in me, and I like it? That’s not the right answer. “I’m just having some fun too.”

“Good!” He says, and moves away from me, jumping off the bed, only to stand in front of me, nudge my chin upwards and kiss me.

He tastes like morning and a hangover. His lips are dry and cracked, catching against mine, which are too. I hold his face, roughly stroking my thumbs down twin cheekbones.

He climbs onto my lap, straddling me. His tiny black pants leave little to the imagination, but I try not to imagine. He’s moving against me though, rubbing that skinny little body hard against my crotch, obviously vying for my attention.

I break off the kiss with him, and he takes a deep breath, grinning.

His lips immediately drop to my neck, kissing and sucking, tongue darting out to… what? Taste me?

“Vince,” I say, “I really have to go.”

“Nah,” he replies. “Not yet.”

I lower my hands to his hips and urge him to stand up. Reluctantly he does, and folds his arms petulantly as I pull on my shirt.

“You’re so serious,” he says, rolling his eyes. Leaving my buttons undone, I walk over to him. His eyes, so electric blue, are surrounded by smudged eyeliner that he’s slept in.

“I’ll be back later,” I say, and consider kissing him. He’s standing in front of me, head angled up, and eyes half closed, and I know he’s expecting it. Awkwardly, I lean forward and peck him on the lips.

He chuckles. “I’ll come with you,” he says, while I move towards the door. “I’ll just get dressed.”

“I’ll be back later, Vince,” I say, and he stops in his tracks by the wardrobe. With a sigh, he lies down on the bed.

“I’ll be waiting.”

I walk towards the door with a laugh, navigating my way through coats and skinny jeans, and he calls out, “Howard!”

I turn, and he’s buried himself back under the blankets.

“See ya,” he grins, “Good luck.”

“Will do,” I reply, and open the bedroom door.

There’s a plate of bruschetta growing stale on the coffee table.

I’m back in my apartment, forcing nicotine into my lungs, and feeling myself relax. I hold my fag in my lips, as my hands untie my shoes, and I lean back into the couch, drawing in a deep breath and exhaling through my nose.

It’s three in the afternoon, but I feel like it’s only the start of the day. My head is thumping dully, and I don’t want to eat, but it doesn’t disturb me. It’s the soft hangover of a night filled with company and…. I guess there’s a small part of me that could be a little bit gay.

There was that time I was watching Indiana Jones, and couldn’t stop looking at Harrison Ford. And then I dreamt about him for a week. They weren’t sexy dreams or anything, just me and him adventuring and exploring together, man and man.

But that final night, in my dream, when his lips grazed mine, stubble rubbing against my chin, and he told me that our explorations were over….

I never watched Indiana Jones again. But I did grow a moustache.

I stand up, stubbing my fag out in the overflowing ashtray on the table and walking into the adjoining room. Time to get to work.

I sit down at my desk, pull the phone close and open Leroy’s address book. I know I saw Saboo in here sometime, and, sure enough, I flick through the worn pages and my eyes quickly fall on his name.

Punching the accompanying mobile number into the phone, I wait for him to pick up. There’s an address too, lucky me, but politeness dictates I should call before dropping by.

However, as the phone rings against my ear, the same repetitive tone over and over, I begin to suspect he isn’t going to answer. Finally, a woman’s voice, devoid of humanity, blandly tells me to leave a message. I sigh as the phone bleeps me my permission to talk, and hang up.

I left my preferred (if there’s such a thing) gun at Vince’s, I realise. And I’m not going over to some shaman-mob type’s dwelling without protection. I open my drawer and grab my second pistol, a heavier, aimless thing, and drop it into my inside jacket pocket.

I need to get a car, I admit to myself. Calling a taxi is a sure-fire way to lose a feeling of confidence.

I wait in my apartment, smoking, until I hear the tooting of the taxi’s horn out on the street.

The day is starting to grow duller (than usual) as I watch the city whip past through the car windows. I’m nervous.

It’s not that I’m scared of this Saboo guy, or The Crunch that he seems so acquainted with. It’s just… confrontation. I’m never ready for confrontation. It’s all very well to investigate shifty and dangerous mysteries. Just, until it actually gets dangerous. I’m of the opinion that this is about the time one should call the police.

But, of course, I never do call the police. Partially because most of my cases are over in a day or two with little or no danger to my person, and partially because I think Ms Gideon still works at the station. And I couldn’t bear it if I had to run back to her or Fossil for help.

It took me quite a while to leave after Tommy died, and Fossil took over the force. I couldn’t stand the guy, or the pointless and amateur cases he put me to work on.

But in the end, being called Harold, or Harvey, or whatever name Gideon took a chance on every single day… I lost the only thing as a cop I’d been loyal to.

Except the sense of justice. Which the force seemed to be losing that on it’s own with Fossil in charge.

So here I am. Taxiing into possible danger, intentions just, but nervousness engaged.

My stomach drops as the car pulls up in front of a terrace house.

Third ring at the doorbell, and there’s still no answer. I can’t see much through the windows; the blinds are shut. But it’s dark, so he must be out. I move around to the side of the house, and squeeze my way into the narrow gap between this one and the bakery next door.

Eventually I find another window, through which I can see Saboo’s lounge. It looks like it would generally be relatively homey. Comfortable furniture, a bit ragged and sparse, but comfortable nonetheless.

But today the television has been smashed and an armchair has been knocked over onto its back. A painting has fallen from the wall and lies face down on the clean wooden floor.

I crouch down and search through the overgrown weeds for something heavy. The ground is damp and filled with insect life; I make a face as a small spider crawls up my arm. Brushing it away, I find half a brick, covered in moss with a colony of ants living underneath it. I stand up, and throw it through the glass, ducking out of the way.

The window shatters, leaving glass pooled on both sides, and across the lounge room floor. Carefully, I climb through, feeling guilty. Before investigating, I pull out my chequebook, and leave a cheque that will hopefully cover the cost of my damage.

But, as I walk through the deserted house, I have a feeling Saboo isn’t coming back any time soon.

Everything is trashed. Food is left on the counter. The hall walls are recently marked with fingernail scratches, and what seems to be burns.

Whatever happened here, both parties certainly weren’t happy with it.

“‘S your fault, you know.”

I spin on the spot, staggering back a few hasty steps as the familiar voice speaks from directly behind me.

“Naboo,” I greet, clutching at the door frame. “Nice entrance. Very abrupt and mysterious.”

“I just came in through the window,” he says, nodding his head to the lounge. I follow him through as he continues. “Just with slightly less smashing and disregard for people’s homes.”

“I did leave a cheque.”

I watch him sit himself down on the couch, and I pick up the armchair, sitting opposite him.

“Yeah,” he replies, “I don’t really reckon Saboo’s going to care that much.”

“What happened to him?” I ask, leaning forward. Naboo rolls his eyes.

“Can’t work anything out for yourself, can you?” He says.

“He’s been taken somewhere,” I reply. “Who’s taken him?”

“Dennis,” Naboo answers, “Obviously.”

“Right, obviously. Why?”

“He told you too much, I reckon.”

The room is silent, and I feel quite uncomfortable.

“How long have you been following me?” I ask. He looks relaxed, slouched in the couch, and he kicks his feet up on the footstool in front of him.

“I wasn’t following you. I figured you’d still be at Vince’s. I was just sent here to do some cleanup.”

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I can see a large black shape appear in the doorway.

“Who’s that?” I ask, jabbing my thumb in the direction of the shape, not taking my eyes of Naboo.

“That’s my mate Bollo,” Naboo replies, and the shape walks slowly forward. It takes only a second for me to jump to my feet and crouch behind the couch for protection.

“That’s a gorilla!” My voice is trembling far more than I’d like. Naboo looks at the gorilla.

“Yeah,” he says, “I know.”

The gorilla walks over to me, and holds out its furry hand.

“Call me Bollo,” it grunts, and I cautiously shake hands with it. Him. He pulls me out from behind the couch, and sits down next to Naboo. He’s carrying a sack over one huge shoulder, which he drops on the ground with a flump.

“Clean up Howard’s mess, will you Bollo?” Naboo says, and with a groan, Bollo gets right back onto his feet. He picks up the sack and lumbers over to the window, crouching down, pulling out a dustpan and broom, and sweeping up the glass.

“Where were we?” Says Naboo.

“I’m kind of hoping you were about to give me some useful information.”

Naboo rolls his eyes, but a slight smirk appears on his face.

“Don’t have much more information to give,” he replies, standing. “I just know Saboo’s gone, and I’ve been sent here to tidy up. They’re not telling me everything.” He looks me in the eyes, deadly serious. “Look,” he sighs. “I wanna help Vince, I do. I wanna help you, too, sort of. But I’m part of the Shaman Council myself. I’ve got loyalties. There’s only one more thing I can tell you, Howard.”

He falls silent, and I lean forward slightly in the armchair, raising my eyebrows.

“Which is?”

“They’re onto you. And Vince. Now, help me carry this telly outside.”

I knock so hard on Vince’s door that my knuckles graze. I’m panicking, I know. My heart race has sped up, and I’m sweating despite the cold. But I have to get him somewhere safe.

He doesn’t answer the door immediately, and with every second that passes, I get more and more anxious that they’ve got to him, that I’m too late.

I knock again, louder, and relief floods through me as I hear him from the hall.

“Alright, Alright, hold your horses!”

The door swings open, and he looks up at me, grinning.

“Inpatient, aren’t we?” He purrs, batting his dark eyelashes.

He looks beautiful. So ridiculously beautiful I can tell he’s been preening since I left this morning.

“We have to go,” I say quickly, grabbing his wrist. He digs his heels into the ground and raises an eyebrow.

“What, right now?” He’s wriggled out of my grip, and seems to be searching the table in the hall for something.

“Yes, right now!” Looking left and right, I huff in irritation, and dive inside, closing his door.

“Come on,” I say, “What are you doing?”

“Trying to find me keys,” he snaps, rummaging around in a bowl full of coins, buttons, boxes of matches and other odds and ends. Finally he pulls out a key-chain, and slips it into the pocket of his jeans, squeezing his fingers into the tight denim with effort.

Stepping into his boots, he looks up at me as he zips them up.

“What’s goin’ on?” He asks, eyes worried. I didn’t realise how tense I was until I feel my expression soften.

I lean against the wall, and let out a long breath. “Saboo’s gone,” I say, “I had a chat to Naboo, apparently we’re next. They know where you live, we’ll go back to mine.”

“I thought Saboo was on their side?” He asks, standing up and pulling a jacket over his netted top.

“Yeah, he was,” I reply, opening the door again, and reaching out to pull at his hand, “But he did something wrong, clearly. Naboo reckons he told me too much. Come on, there’s a taxi waiting downstairs.”

Pushing Vince out into the hall, he glances over his shoulder at me with a half grin.

“This is proper dangerous, innit, Howard?” He says, as if he’s excited. I roll my eyes, and walk to the stairs, slipping an arm companionably round his shoulder.

“Yeah, little man,” I reply, “It is.”

As we sit in the taxi, the sun shining in through the windows, part of me wishes I hadn’t rescued Vince from almost certain capture.

“Hey, Howard,” he whispers, leaning over and moving his lips practically against my ear, “D’you reckon the taxi driver could be one of ‘em? He looks pretty shifty, don’t he? He could be driving us to our deaths!”

I crane my neck to check out the driver in his rear view mirror. A hunched over, pale man, shadows ringing his eyes.

“No,” I reply.

Vince sits back in his chair, looking out the window. “Well, maybe he’s just got bad hair,” he murmurs, loud enough for me to hear, but not the offending taxi driver.

He’s shivering a bit, light jacket not really doing much to warm his chest, clad only in black netting.

He watches the street whiz by moodily for a minute, before his face lights up and he turns to me.

“I think that cars been following us!” He says, jamming his thumb towards the back window, eyes twinkling.

“Which one?”

“The blue one!”

I swivel around in my chair, and scan the road, trying to work out which blue one he’s referring to.

“Oh wait,” he says, sitting back down, “It turned into that last street.”

I sigh, and face forward again.

“You make everything harder, don’t you?” I grumble.

He winks at me.

Finally, the taxi driver pulls up outside my apartment block, and I pay him as I get out of the car. Behind me, I can hear Vince talking to him, and I turn around.

“Don’t you try anything, punk,” Vince growls at the taxi driver, leaning into the open front window, and pointing at him threateningly, “Or Howard’ll be onto you faster than flares go out of fashion.”

I can’t help laughing, and grab his hips, pulling him back. He stumbles away from the car, and shimmies out of my grip, standing by the letter-boxes, adjusting his clothes in the reflection of someone’s window.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” I say to the driver, and he pulls away without acknowledging me.

I turn and walk towards the building and Vince follows me, falling in with my step.

“I shoulda told him I’d get my cousin Jahouli onto ‘im,” he says in a chav voice, chuckling.

“This is serious,” I say as we start to climb the stairs, “You do realise that, right?”

He makes a face as he looks around the stairwell. “Ew, it’s well rank in here. You’re apartment better not be this bad, I won’t be able to sleep.”

We reach the first level, and I pause in my step.

“Did you even listen to what I sai–”

“What was that?” He cuts me off, looking around, panicked.

“I said, we’re in danger Vince. Do you have any concept of how much–”

“No, no, not that!” His eyes dart left and right frantically, “I thought I heard something, like a gun shot or something…”

“What? I didn’t hear any–”

Suddenly, the window next to us shatters as a bullet flies through, and Vince drops to the ground, pulling me with him.

“Will anyone let me finish a single sentence?!” I yell, and Vince clamps a hand over my mouth.

We lie like that for a minute, and when nothing happens, I slowly crawl over to the window, and peek over the ledge.

There’s a blue car on the street, a gun poking out of the partially wound down window.

Ducking back down below the window, I look at Vince, eyes wide.

“What do we do?” He says, voice quieter than strictly necessary.

“Go up to my apartment and call the police?” I suggest, shrugging, and we begin to crawl towards the stairs.

“Shouldn’t you go out there and like, shoot him up or something?” He hisses.

“My aims terrible,” I reply, “I’m here to solve mysteries, not kill people.”

“You don’t have to kill him,” Vince says, “Just…. maim him a bit.”

“Just get up the stairs,” I snap, but fling an arm out in front of him as I hear feet clomping down from above, “Or don’t,” I add as I hear a voice yell a few stories up.

“Oi, Kirk, they’re down this way!”

Vince is staring up the stairs, eyes wide and fearful as the footfalls get closer and closer.

“Run!” I yell, and we both stand up, turning and bolting down the stairs. The clomping above us gets faster and louder, and another gun blast echoes through the stairwell, now accompanied by the shouts and screams of other residents.

Vince dives towards the front entrance door, but I grab his wrist and pull him towards the side exit.

Pressing ourselves against the wall, we pause for a moment, looking for somewhere to run to.

Almost immediately, Vince grins and runs forward, leaving me with no option but to follow him.

A woman is getting out of her car on the street, and he jogs towards her, flicking his hair, leaning in close, and saying things to her I can’t quite hear, with open and honest eyes. She smiles and hands him her car keys, and he jumps into the front seat, gripping her hand gratefully.

He hurriedly beckons me, and I climb into the passenger seat, as he turns on the engine.

“To the police station?” I say, and he accelerates abruptly, crashing out onto the, thankfully empty, road.

“Cool,” he replies, trying to gain control of the vehicle as it zooms down the road.

“Can you drive?” I gasp, as I grip desperately at the door handle. The street seems to swerve in and out of focus as he shakily speeds down the road, swerving left and right.

“I’m doing it, yeah?” He says casually, narrowly missing a telephone pole.

“Pull over,” I say, “We’ll swap.”

He asks me how to pull over as my phone starts ringing in my pocket. Fumbling, I pull it out and hold it to my ear, signalling him to pull over.

“Howard Moon,” I greet, as Vince raises both hand in an expression of query. “Hand on the wheel!” I shout at him, voice an octave higher than usual. Into the phone, I say, “Sorry, this probably isn’t a good time.”

“We need to talk,” says a familiar voice, and my brow furrows.

“Saboo?”

“No shit,” He says, “I have things I need to tell you.”

The car is still veering all over the road, and I ask Saboo to hold on, before pressing the phone against my shoulder and turning to Vince.

“Look,” I say, “Just hold the wheel straight, unless there’s an actual corner, then you can turn it. Okay?”

“No time for that,” he replies, into the rear view mirror, just before the car jerks forward. It takes me a second to realise that it’s not Vince’s bad driving, and that the blue car has followed us. A bullet shatters one of the side mirrors, and the car swerves particularly sharply as Vince jumps in his seat.

I hold the phone back to my ear. “Saboo,” I say, voice strangely calm, “Think I can give you a call later?”

“I’m on your side, and we need to work together if we–”

I hang up, and twist around in my seat as Vince turns a corner.

“What was that?” He asks, looking at me.

“Eyes on the road,” I reply, “Saboo says he’s on our side. Turn into the next street.”

“Do you still want to take over?” He asks, and I see the blue car turn the corner, and speed up towards us. I can just make out the man behind the wheel; the guy from Leroy’s Laser Copy Centre. He leans out the window as he drives, aiming his gun at us.

“Turn!” I yell at Vince, as the next corner approaches, “Turn now!”

Vince spins the wheel hard, and manages to swerve into the street, just as a bullet flies past us.

“I actually think you should take over,” he says, holding his arms straight in front of him, trying to control the car.

“Not right now, Vince,” I say, digging around in my jacket, “We’ve gotta get rid of this guy.”

I finally manage to pull my gun from its holster, and Vince’s face lights up.

“Are you going to shoot him?” He asks, as the blue car gains on us.

“How bloodthirsty are you?!” I say, taking aim out the side window.

“M’not bloodthirsty. But this is like a proper car chase with guns and everything. The gun really adds to your look Howard, you know…. oh, there’s a car coming towards us by the way. What should I do?”

“Don’t crash into it,” I reply, my finger on the trigger. I’m aiming at his front wheel, hopefully it’ll stop him, if I can hit the target.

“Just shoot already,” Vince says, pressing on the horn, “I don’t wanna swerve till you’ve shot.”

“Okay, okay,” I say, as our other side mirror shatters. Squeezing my eyes closed, I pull the trigger.

My eyes stay shut, and I can hear tyres screeching, and horns honking, and people screaming, and I say to Vince, “Did I hit it?” Just as I hear a loud crash, and my eyes burst open.

“Yeah…” He says, slowing down, “I reckon you did.”

The blue car has swerved into a brick wall; the bonnet is completely crumpled, and the roof seems to be half collapsed. Glass is spread all around on the ground, and there seems to be quite a lot of smoke, and more than a little fire.

It doesn’t look like the Laser Copy Centre bloke will be walking away very soon.

Vince pulls over, and looks at me, worriedly.

People are crowding around the crash, but no one seems to have noticed us yet.

“Swapsies?” Vince suggests, and I climb out of the car as he crawls over into the passenger seat.

Climbing into the driver’s side, I start up the engine, and drive out into the main street, heading back towards my apartment.


It’s only when we reach my flat, and Vince lets go of my hand, that I finally realise he’s been holding it. Losing that contact somehow loses an anchor for me, and I collapse against the door as I dig my hand into my pocket, searching for my keys. Tears well up behind my eyes, and I will them not to fall.

“You alright?” Vince asks, resting a hand on my back.

“I just killed a guy, Vince,” I reply, blindly forcing the keys into the lock.

“You dunno that,” he replies, trying to sound optimistic. Knowing him, he probably is optimistic. “He could just have a couple of bruises. Maybe not even that. It wasn’t that bad a crash.”

“The car caught fire,” I say, finally pushing the door open. I wander inside, collapsing onto the couch and bury my face in my hands.

“Nice place you got here,” Vince says, and it’s then I know how much he feels the need to cheer me up.

“Thanks,” I say dryly.

I feel the cushion on the couch sink, and he’s sitting next to me.

“C’mon,” He says quietly, pressing his lips to my shoulder, “He was trying to kill us. You did the right thing. And he may well be fine. Don’t you go all suicidal till we know he’s dead, alright?”

I don’t reply, and I can feel his arm sliding around my waist, and his lips move up to my neck.

“You need a cuppa tea?” He asks, and I pause before nodding.

He chuckles as he stands up and I look up through my fingers, wiping my eyes with my sleeve while his back is turned.

He wanders over to the bench on the far wall and puts the water on to boil.

“Cups up here?” He asks, pointing to the cabinet.

“Yeah,” I try to say, but it just comes out as a choked sound. I cough.

“Yeah,” I say, and he opens the cabinet and pulls out two mugs.

Even though it’s not warm in here, he shrugs off his jacket and hangs it over the back of one of my two rickety dining chairs, standing next to the kettle in that ridiculous not-really-a-shirt, and smiling kindly at me.

With a groan, I push my tired body to my feet and wander over to him holding those skinny hips in my hands. I look into his eyes, and he smiles at me, bringing a hand up to cup my cheek.

Leaning forward, I kiss those smiling lips, pushing him slightly against the counter. I mean it just as a grateful kiss, but he brings a leg up, wrapping it around one of mine and pulling me closer, letting out one of his pretty little half moans into my mouth.

Our tongues dance together softly, and he sucks my bottom lip between his, nibbling oh so lightly at it. I feel myself go light-headed, and slide my hands down to where his arse meets his legs, and lift him up onto the counter. He wraps both his legs around me and I kiss him just that bit harder, and he responds just that bit more eagerly.

Then the kettle clicks itself off, and I pull away, blushing.

“That is,” I stammer, “I meant to say, thanks. For the… offer of tea. So thanks.”

I sit down at the table, achingly aware of my erection, and that he’s probably just as aware of my erection as I am.

I hear him laugh, and pour some water, fiddling around with my tea pot.

Setting a mug before me, he sits down in the opposite chair with his own and takes a drink, eyes locked with mine.

“Not a problem,” he says, and I blow into the slightly too milky tea.

We drink in silence, which I think is odd for Vince until I notice how intently he’s inspecting his nail polish, but I’m grateful for the quiet. The tea is warming, and the guilt I feel settles to a dull twinging in my stomach, nicely offset with the dull twinging in my cock as I watch Vince’s practically bare chest rise and fall with each breath.

Shaking my head, I finish my tea, and rinse the cup out at the sink. This isn’t the time to be thinking about… whatever it is I’m feeling. This is the time to take action. Or at the very least, plan to take action.

I sit back down at the table, and he takes tiny sips of his drink, looking at me unblinkingly over the rim.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” I say to him, “First thing tomorrow morning, we’ll go over to Lester’s place. We’ll be safe there. There, I’ll call Saboo, see what he has to say. Hopefully that’ll give us somewhere to go, some action to take. Worst case scenario, we lay low till Friday, and go back to the Obsidian Blackbird. I don’t think you should go back on stage, but if we’re lucky, Dennis will show up, and I can follow him. Find something out. How does that sound?”

Vince drains his cup, and sets up down on the table, ruffling up the back of his hair.

“What about tonight?” He says, and I shrug.

“We can’t leave tonight; Lester won’t be home till much later. It’s blues fusion night at the Jazz club. We’ll have to risk staying here.”

My gut is wrenching at the thought; they obviously know where I live. My only hope is that the Shamans will think it would be so amazingly stupid to come back here that they won’t bother checking.

That’s not really what I’d like to be basing my safety on.

Vince doesn’t look worried, though, and he just smiles, and says, “Alright then.”

“Locks don’t bother them, do they?” I ask him, scratching my rough beard.

“Who?” He replies, looking confused.

“The Shamans,” I say, an idea slowly forming in my head.

“What are you on about?”

“Naboo,” I reply, opening Leroy’s address book, and pulling my mobile out of my pocket. “He just came into my apartment the other morning, when it was locked.”

I punch in his number and hold the ringing phone to my ear as Vince starts to chew on his thumbnail, still looking bemused.

“What is it now?” Says Naboo into my ear as he picks up his phone.

“Hey, Naboolio,” I greet, trying to sound cheerful and welcoming, “How are you?”

“What do you want?” He replies.

“Just a little favour, nothing big.”

He sighs dramatically, and groans, “Yeah?”

“I was just wondering,” I say as pleasantly as possible, “If you’d be able to do a little shaman something to stop those other Shamans that want me and Vince dead from getting into my flat tonight?”

He sighs again, tells me he’ll be right back, and the phone goes silent as he wanders off.

Vince raises an eyebrow across the table at me in query and I shrug.

A few minutes later, Naboo picks up the phone and says, “Alright, you’re safe till sun up.”

“Really?” I ask, “Just like that?”

“What do you expect? A magic circle? Don’t sleep in,” he snaps, and hangs up.

I look around the apartment, putting my phone down on the table.

“Apparently we’re good,” I say slowly.

“No one can get in?” Vince asks. He’s standing up, and there’s an inflection to his voice that doesn’t sound quite appropriate to our predicament.

He wanders over, and perches on the table in front of me.

“Yeah,” I answer, “It would seem so.”

“So we have the place to ourselves all night?” He purrs, leaning back and draping himself across the table in front of me.

“How many levels of function does your mind actually have?” I ask him, leaning back in my chair and folding my arms. But I chuckle as I say it, and he grins.

“Dunno,” Vince answers, “Never learnt to count.”

I stand up, and look down at him. He’s running one hand down his torso, his other resting at the top of his thigh.

“Subtle,” I remark.

A cheeky grin lights up his face, but still I shake my head.

“Look Vince,” I say, dropping my hand down to stop his in its track, and hold it. “I don’t think I can… I might have just killed someone, not an hour ago.”

“Oh, you’re still hung up on that,” He replies, not maliciously, or insensitively, but as if he’s honestly surprised.

He sits up, dropping his feet to the floor and stands close to me. His hands rise to my shoulders, and he pushes gently at them, urging me towards the doorless arch that leads to me bedroom.

As I walk backwards, he slides his hands down my chest to unbutton my shirt and pushes it off as we pass through the door.

“Vince,” I say, but he plants a kiss to my chest.

“Chill out,” he murmurs, and I feel my knees bump against the corner of the bed. “This’ll help. I promise.”

He pushes me down, crawling up my body to plant a hard kiss on my lips, tongue darting out, and flicking against mine, where my mouth has opened to try to protest.

“Just wanna make you feel good,” he mumbles into my lips.

I can’t get myself in order. Hell, I can’t even get myself in agreement. “Okay,” replies my mouth, but some part of me, (not my brain, which seems to be preoccupied on his hand that’s slipping between our bodies to fumble with my trouser buttons) some small part of me, (not my crotch, either, which is firmly stating its opinion that it approves of what’s going on) twinges with guilt.

This part of me, which must be somewhere near my stomach because it’s making it writhe, is telling me that this is wrong, wrong, wrong. I don’t deserve this. I certainly don’t deserve to feel good, not after what I’ve done.

Vince sits up, and my head jerks forward, trying to keep contact with his mouth. He’s kneeling next to me on the bed, and telling me to take my trousers off, as he pulls his shirt over his head.

I pull myself to sitting, and that part of me is given room to breath, and is screaming at me that I can’t do this, that Vince is a boy, that I don’t love him, and I still have time to stop and save myself for the person I’ll be with forever.

But I pull my trousers down my thighs, and my cock is also given breathing room, and it tells that indefinable part of me to shut the fuck up, and though I’m not keen on his language, I’m inclined to agree.

And it does, and I don’t know whether I’m being strong or being weak, so I just pull my trousers right off my legs, and turn to Vince, who’s still kneeling and trying to wriggle out of his drainpipes.

I crawl over to him, feeling vaguely (but less than I expected) self conscious in just my underpants, and lower my head to kiss his hip bones, just for something to do.

This is it, I think to myself, as Vince manages to pull his drainpipes down most of his thighs, leaving just his bulging underpants at my eye-line. This is it, I’m about to be obscenely close to another man’s nether regions.

“Gimme a hand?” Vince gasps, and I look up at his face, which is twisted with the effort of pulling his trousers off.

“Need lubricant?” I joke nervously, moving my hands to join his at the waist of the drainpipes, and pull down hard.

“Yeah,” he says, “But not just yet.”

Heat spreads up my neck and across my face, so I look down, hoping he doesn’t notice. Together, we push his trousers right down to his ankles and he wriggles out of them, stripping off his underpants as well. My blush deepens and I’m not sure how my blood is sustaining both ends of my body, but my cock isn’t giving up that easily, and stands proudly in my pants.

With a happy sigh he climbs onto my lap, facing me, his legs flanking either side of my torso.

He’s grinning, and I forget to close my eyes as he leans in to kiss me. His hand is sliding down my chest, and I’m staring at his heavy eyelashes, coated in black mascara. His make up smudging now, and leaving a black ring around each eye.

I suck in breath as his hand strays down to my pants, dipping under the waistband. His hand is moving unsteadily, twisted at an odd angle and trapped between our two bodies, but I couldn’t care less as it wraps around my cock. His brow is furrowed slightly with concentration. I’ve still got my eyes open.

I let my eyelids fall shut, realising that I’ve barely been kissing him back these last few moments, as I fight to keep my breath steady. His lips are moving against mine, trying to entice me to move with them, but I’ve been oblivious. A fingertip slides up the underside of my cock, and comes to rest on the tip.

“Ready?” He asks into my mouth, and I nod dumbly. “Knew you were ready,” he adds, moving off my lap, and bringing his finger away from my cock, and up to his lips. There’s a glistening drop of pre-cum on the tip of that digit, slipping down his nail like nail polish. He flicks his tongue out, and his finger is clean.

I can’t help but make a face. He rolls his eyes.

He mutters something, it could be “Come on,” or “Alright then”. It’s something mundane, and he slips his thumbs under the elastic of my pants, pulling them down. My hands join his, and he lets go, letting me pull off my knickers clumsily.

“Lookin’ good, Howard Moon,” he says. I can’t move from where I’m sitting awkwardly on the bed.

“What now?” I ask.

He grins and turns around, on all fours, as he rummages through the bedside table.

He seems to be presenting his arse to me, and I’m daunted more than anything. How’s that going to fit in there? I think, looking down into my lap.

I can hear him scrambling round, and I look up to see him facing me, holding a tube. He squeezes a generous amount of the KY Jelly onto his palm before coating his fingers with it.

Up on his knees, his slicked up hand slides down behind him, while his other wraps round his own cock, pumping slowly. I watch him as he bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. Leaning to the side, I peek around behind him.

One finger has disappeared up to the knuckle into his arse, and my vision goes blurry for a moment. It looks hot. Mimicking him, my own hand grips my erection and I touch myself as I watch him bury a second finger in there.

“Enjoying yourself there?” He asks, voice slightly forced. I tear my eyes away from the entrancing sight before me, and look up at his eyes from my bent over position, which are glistening as droplets of sweat slide down his face.

“Need a hand, at all?” I offer, trying to sound as casual and helpful as I can.

“Not really,” he replies, “But you can take over here, if you want.” He lets go of his cock, nodding at it, then at me. Tentatively, I reach forward, making a loose fist around his erection. It’s a familiar gesture from an unfamiliar angle.

He lets out a groan as I jerk him, and myself, off, slowly growing more confident, and I can hear the tube being opened again, and a dollop of lube fall onto his palm. My eyes are closed, and my head buried against his damp neck as I concentrate. His knuckles brush against the back of my hand, the hand around my own cock, and I let go, only to have my hand replaced with his slippery one.

Minutes pass, more than are really necessary, as we kneel together, hands wrapped around each others erections, but soon enough he lets out a short breath against my neck, and lets go of me. I pause, before doing the same. With a slight sense of loss, I kneel on the bed, disconnected from him.

But his lips smack against my cheek briefly, and with a wink he turns around, on all fours again.

I’m about to lose my virginity, I vaguely realise, moving forward. My hands shake slightly as one sits on his hip, the other closing around my lubed up cock to guide it home.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he says, apparently oblivious to my defining moment, and I push forward, into his arse. Slowly I thrust against him, each push burying me deeper inside him. He’s moaning wantonly like a porn star, but I’m not making a sound.

My eyes are closed, head lolling back, and all I can feel is my cock enveloped in this tight and warm tunnel. He’s wriggling against me, back and forward, back and forward, and I know I’m not going to last long.

Remembering my manners, I open my eyes and move my free hand over his smooth hip and around his erection. My eyes are now trained on the beads of sweat on his neck, and I’m growing louder. I can hear my heavy breathing in the quiet, dusty room, along with his moans that seem to be quieting to just whimpered pants. Suddenly he stills against me, briefly, and I can feel him come, letting out a long groan of “fuuuuuuuuuck”.

With one last thrust, I spill myself inside him, eyes squeezing shut.

After a minute, his breathing becomes louder than the thumping of my own heart in my ears, and he slumps forward onto the bed. My softening erection feels cold in the air now, and I crawl over to lie next to him, exhausted.

“Fuck,” he mumbles into the pillow as I drift into sleep. “Forgot the condom. I’ll be oozing all night.”

Light is beginning to shimmer through my thin curtains when I wake up. My foggy mind becomes aware, first, of the fact that I’m nearly falling off my bed. Face buried in the crook of my elbow, I grin. Vaguely, almost like in a dream, I can remember Vince curling up closer and closer to me through the night, only to push me away, and then wriggle closer again, light snores breathing warm air against my neck.

He’s not beside me any more though. He’s apparently rolled onto the other side of the bed, presumably taking the quilt with him. I don’t move, even though I’m cold, naked except for my thin sheet. Blindly, not opening my eyes, I reach down with one hand, trying to pull it tighter around me for more warmth.

Suddenly, my mind registers the other thing that’s keeping me so cold. The sheet seems to be disturbingly damp. My grin fades, my brow draws together and my curiosity takes over, pulling my eyes open.

I sit up, and look down at my palm, which is covered in whatever is dampening the sheets.

All my foggy brain sees is red, and my heart stops. Blood. The word floats through my mind, making no connections to anything. I bring my clean hand to one eye and rub it, trying to work out what I’m seeing, because there’s a shape at the end of the bed, and it isn’t making any sense.

Those are Vince’s eyes, but Vince isn’t in them. Those are Vince’s lips, but they’re as pale as the rest of his face. And… that’s all I can see. Where’s Vince’s body, that bony, soft body?

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to rid this image from my head. Lying before me is a decapitated head, and it looks like Vince, it’s shaped like Vince, but it isn’t Vince.

Not anymore.

Shocked tears fall down my cheeks, and my hands curl through my hair, coating it with sticky blood.

“Oh fuck, Vince,” I whisper, opening my eyes.

Vince’s lifeless eyes blink.

“What was that, Son?”

Everything takes a moment to register, as my sleepy vision clears, and things fall into place.

“Who’re you?” I stammer at the head at the bottom of my bed. The tentacles at the bottom of his neck wriggle as he laughs, his bi-domed head quaking.

“Lordy,” he says in a raspy old voice, “You look like you’ve shit your willy off.”

“I think I might have, Sir,” I reply, glancing to the other side of the bed, expecting to see Vince curled up with my brown doona. But he isn’t there. “What have you done with him?”

“The ugly bird? Dennis wanted ‘im. I’ve just been left ‘ere to finish you off. You’ve been stirring up some wonky shit mate, that is, quite simply, an outrage!”

In my drowsy confusion, I’m still having trouble processing everything.

“But where did all this blood come from?” I mutter.

“What blood, you dingbat?”

“The sheets are sticky with…” I look down, and inspect the blanket. The sunrise shining in through the window is making the substance look red, but it isn’t.

“Look,” rasps the head, “I don’t even want to know about that.”

“Where’s Vince?” I ask as I swing my legs out of bed and grab my pants and cords off the floor, pulling them on.

“Dennis’ place, I already told you! Aw, don’t get up, I need to off you, before you run and tell the police about Dennis getting Leroy killed!”

“What?” I say, glancing over my shoulder at the pink head, which is shuffling slowly towards me, across the bed.

“You are in for it!”

I let out a short derisive laugh, devoid of actual humour, and lift him up by one tentacle.

“Where does Dennis live?”

“Oi, get off, you Meat Cleaver! I’m a powerful Shaman!”

I carry him over to the window, pushing it open and holding him out through the curtains. He calls an address out to me.

“Thanks,” I say, and pull him back inside, shutting him in the wardrobe on my way out the door.

Impatiently, I stand outside my building waiting for the taxi, holding my phone tight to my ear. I’m gripping it so hard I can feel my knuckles tensing up. I’m never going to be let go of this phone, I think as I wait for the ringing to stop. It’s going to become part of me. I’ll spend the rest of my life with an old Nokia clenched in my grip, and all the trendy kids will think I’m an old fogey who won’t buy an iPhone. Not that I’d usually care. However, Vince is one of those trendy kids. Not that it matters, if my taxi doesn’t get here soon.

“Lester, I need you,” I snap as soon as the phone is answered.

“Look, I told you Louis, its over between us.”

“What? No, it’s me, Howard.”

“Oh, sorry Howard,” Lester replies, chuckling into the receiver, “You do sound an awful lot like Ol’ Mr Armstrong; you’ll have to forgive an old man his desires. What can I do for you?”

“I need you to meet me at Dennis’. I don’t want to go in without backup,” I say hurriedly as the taxi rounds the corner. I jog towards it, waving.

“You really are one crazy motherfucker Howard Moon,” Lester says, and I can hear his rocking chair cease to squeak in the background.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes, you in?”

“Does a Polar Bear wear shades?”

“Good man,” I say, climbing into the taxi and pulling the door shut behind me. “Also, hasn’t Louis Armstrong been dead for over thirty years?”

“I’ll admit,” answers Lester, rocking again, “It did put a dampener on our relationship.”

“Bye Lester,” I say and hang up, feeling ill.

The taxi driver twists around in his seat to look at me, a young man, grinning with hopes and dreams. “Where to?”


The taxi driver slows as we approach the house. It’s a terrace building, two stories, skinny. The lace curtains are drawn, but in the bottom right hand window, I can see people moving about as black and white silhouettes. I tell my driver to pull up around the corner. He does, and parks and I pay him slowly, trying to prolong the moment till I have to go up to that door and knock. Do I knock, or do I just kick it in? I don’t think I’d be able to kick it in.

“Thanks,” I mumble as the lad at the wheel hands me my change, and I open the car door. My hand is shaking. The driver is watching me carefully, ready to start driving as soon as I step out the door.

I’m scared. I’m more scared than I’ve been in my life. I’m more scared than I was when Tommy told me to go for it and tell Ms Gideon how I felt. I didn’t go for it, though. I just stood outside her office door writing conversation starters in my note-pad. I was too scared.

But this time, I can’t rehearse and I certainly can’t back out. I need to help Vince, because Vince… I’ll admit it. I like the little tart. So I am going to move. I am going to move now, and I am going to walk right around that corner, and through that gate, and up to that door, and I’m going to do the heroic thing.

Right. Now.

My feet feel like they sink into the pavement as I walk, and with every step that skinny brick building gets closer, and my stomach gets tighter. My sweaty palm slips on the gate as I push it open, and step through. Heart pumping in my ears, I approach the door. I can see every pore on the bricks surrounding me, and every ant crawling on the wood of the window frame. It would be tactical to just take that step to the side and peek through the front window, wouldn’t it? Not cowardly, no sir! It would be a clever move portraying good planning and initiative.

As soon as I look through the window, part of me wishes I hadn’t. I don’t really feel angry, seeing Vince curled up on Dennis’ large lap like that, twirling his hair and laughing. I guess I just feel disappointed. And betrayed, and hurt, and then he wraps that arm around the back of Dennis’ headdress, and pecks his cheek like some tart, and oh. There’s the anger.

Without a second thought, and without looking away from the window, I feel around for the door handle and knock. Dennis looks up, clearly surprised and irritated, and Vince jumps off his lap, letting Dennis tap his arse and point for him to go upstairs. Then he leaves the room, and I can hear footsteps approaching the door.

“Good day, sir,” I say as the door swings open, menace tinging my words, I hope. Pale eyes look down at me, and an eyebrow arches.

“Mr Moon,” Dennis replies pleasantly, “Come in.”

I step over the threshold, eyes trained on him. He’s a tall man, and looks down at me quite easily as he motions me through to the living room. I step into the room, and take a seat where he was sitting not a minute ago. The cushion is still warm, and the air smells of Vince.

“Would you like a drink?” Dennis offers, his voice reverberating around the room. “I have some Ice Tea, how about a glass?”

I glare at him, as he stands tall and proud, trying to gage where I am standing. “No thank you, sir. I think there is a more important issue at hand.”

“If you want your final moments to be un-refreshed,” he replies, reaching into the deep folds of the purple cloak he wears, “So be it.”

He’s completely casual as he reaches into the folds of his cloak and pulls out a long sword. My gun in heavy on my hip, and it would take barely a second to draw it and pull the trigger, but instead I jump up off the chair, and dive behind it. I press myself against the cool wood, facing the wall, and draw in a deep breath, contemplating the fact that this possibly isn’t the best hiding place ever. Especially since, not a second later, I can feel the cool steel of his sword against my throat.

“At least tell me what this is about,” I say shakily, hoping to keep him talking.

My neck immediately warms as the blade is withdrawn, and I look up at Dennis, already reaching for my gun. I need the upper hand, but most of all I just want to hurt him. Hurt him badly for touching Vince.

I have always been a little possessive.

But he’s gone, and when I stand up, I catch sight of the edge of his cloak disappearing around the corner of the archway leading to this room. I move to stand in the centre of the room, holding the gun by my side. There’s a loud knocking on the front door, and Dennis yells that he’s coming.

I look around the room, feeling awkward, and at the top of the stairs I think I can see some clear blue eyes watching me. But it’s dark up there, and in a second they’re gone. With a disgruntled sigh, I walk forward and look out the room, where Dennis is just opening the door.

“Howard,” Lester says as he barges right into the house, quickly reaching out towards Dennis face, who flinches back, “I came as quick as I could. But seems like you’ve dealt with the bastard already, haven’t ya? Good job, my friend, knew you could do it. I always believed in you. Now show me where you’ve got him, we’ll dispose of the sonofabitch.”

Dennis looks at Lester, who is standing heroically and expectantly in the doorway, with a furrowed brow and a tight frown. “Excuse me,” He says, “I am in the middle of some business right now,” and raises his sword, bringing it in an arch towards Lester’s neck.

“NO!” I cry, darting forward, but I’m too slow. As I watch, the sword slides freely through my oldest friend’s neck, sending his head flying up the hall. Dennis simply sheaths himself again, and turns to face me.

“Where were we?” He says, but I don’t give him time to finish, my gun already raised and finger on the trigger. Before I know it, there’s the sound of a gunshot, and he falls forward, blood seeping into the carpet. But something is wrong, I haven’t moved. My finger hasn’t moved, it wasn’t my gun that fired.

“Mr Moon,” Saboo says from behind The Head Shaman’s fallen figure, slipping his gun back into his coat, “Did you remember that I wanted a chat?”

I still haven’t taken in what’s happened as I look at Saboo, then back down at the ground, then up the stairs where Vince has moved out to stand on the top story, watching carefully.

“But,” I stammer, and Saboo crosses his arms. “…. But, what?”

“‘But what’ what?” He replies sarcastically, with a smirk.

I stare at him. “But what just happened? I’m pretty sure I was meant to have revenge of some description there.”

Saboo just shrugs, and indicates Dennis’ groaning figure. “He’s still alive,” He says, “You can kick him if you want.”

I look past him, to where Lester’s head is trying to shuffle towards his body. “No, I suppose it’s alright,” I say, ignoring where I can see Vince coming slowly down the stairs towards me, “I guess I should take Lester to the hospital. Or something.”

Bending down, I pick him up, nestling him into the crook of my arm. Vince is on the ground floor with us now, standing a few meters away. “Hey, Howard…” he says, and I turn to him.

“It’s been nice working with you, Mr Noir,” I snap, and address Saboo. “Leroy?”

“I was sent as his replacement, a few weeks ago after he was murdered, to infiltrate this Shaman Ring.”

“Replacement what?” I ask, and Saboo grins.

“Leroy was a spy,” He says, and Vince’s jaw drops.

“He’s a what?” I can hear him laugh unbelievingly, as I leave the house, taking Lester with me. “He works in a Laser Copy Centre!”

Back in my apartment a few days later, I close the case on this one, so to speak. More accurately, I open a case, write up a report, carefully leaving Vince out for the most part, and then close the case, shoving it towards the bottom of my dusty stack, filling the room with a musty smell as the dust flies up into the air and settles again.

I put my pen back in its rightful place, and with that one movement feel life go back to normal. Or the way it was, anyway, since I’m not sure what’s normal anymore. It’s growing late, I realise as I look at the old clock hanging on my wall, and so I stand up and walk to my bedroom, unbuttoning my shirt on the way. The simple movement sent a jolt of a reminder through my body, and I can almost feel Vince’s hands pushing my shirt off my shoulders.

Suppressing the memory, I throw my shirt into my laundry basket and lay down on my bed. The past two nights in this bed have been agonising, and I know this one will be as well. My dear bed, my familiar bed, seems awash with memories and meaning now. My sheets remind me what it feels like to connect to another person, and my pillow smells like the fear of losing Vince.

I snort at myself, feeling angry, and chuck the pillow off the bed, closing my eyes and forcing my mind to go blank. It takes hours of tossing and turning to slip into an un-restful sleep, and when I do I dream of sharp blades stabbing me in the back, only to be held my manicured, manly fingers.

I’m woken up by my phone ringing, and realise that I’ve over-slept, not that I have a schedule to keep. The midday sun is shining into the room, and I yawn, sitting up and fumbling to pick up my mobile.

“Howard Moon,” I mumble as I answer.

“Hey,” Says Vince, and he sounds chirpy and bright as usual. I’m a little surprised that I can already recognise his voice from just one word.

“What do you want?”

He pauses for a moment, and I realise how harsh I must have sounded. But I’m angry with him, and I can’t be bothered softening my voice. Finally he speaks, sounding meeker than I’ve ever heard him. “Just wondering why you hadn’t given me a call. Thought we could…”

“It’s nice to know you haven’t completely forgotten about me.” I groan into the receiver, flopping back onto the bed tiredly.

“Forgot–!” He repeats, chuckling slightly, “Why would I forget you? Look, I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner, I was waiting for you to make the first move.”

I roll my eyes at the roof and feel tempted to simply hang up on him. “Dennis,” I say instead, hearing my voice come out half choked.

“What a tool, eh?” He laughs, but there’s something fake about his laughter, and I don’t reply. “He’s a tool, inne Howard?” He adds after a long moment.

“Well, I thought so,” I say, gripping my mobile tightly, “But somehow I got under the impression that the only tool you could see in him was his dick.”

He’s silent for a long while. Eventually I hear him let out a long breath, and he says, “Can I come over?”

“No,” I reply.

“Wanna come over here, then?”

“Vince,” I say shortly.

There’s another long pause, and he says, “Fine, I didn’t tell you something about me an’ Dennis. But it was long in the past, he never got over it. I was just trying to stay in one piece. He has a sword, Howard.”

I listen to him but don’t really bother listening to his excuses. “Bye, Vince,” I say into the phone, quieter and softer this time.

“I’ll call you again,” he replies, and I hang up, turning off my phone.

I consider turning my phone back on many times over the next two days. But I don’t, scared of what I’ll find. Either there’ll be an onslaught of messages and missed calls from him, or there’ll be nothing at all. I don’t know which one would be worse, but I sure as hell don’t want to find out.

So instead I read, and I listen to music, and I play music, and I smoke and I mope. I’m back to square one.

It’s about lunchtime, and I’m just slicing some cheese to grill onto toast, when there’s a knock at my door and a call of “C’mon, lemme in!” I shake my head even though he can’t see me, and shout back, telling him to go away.

“Fuck off!” He yells in return. “Not going anywhere ‘til you open the door. And when you open the door, the only place I’m going is inside. Or coming inside. Or just coming. S’up to you.”

I stare at the door, put my knife down on the bench and wander over, standing with my back to the thin wood. I think he hears me come closer, because his voice is quieter when he says, “Come on Howard, you can’t be that mad.”

“I’ll assure you,” I reply softly, feeling my resolve crumbling, “That Howard Moon has the capacity to be quite mad, sir.”

“Howard Moon has the capacity to be a massive tit box,” He teases through the crack in the door and I turn the handle, stepping forward and letting him push it open.

I wander over to the other side of the room, taking a seat on the couch and watching him. He stands just inside the doorway, looking impeccable, which is obviously very deliberate. But it’s a different sort of impeccable than I’m used to. Instead of some glittery, see through number, he’s just wearing black skinny jeans and a checkered shirt, which is unbuttoned at least half the way. He’s wearing very little makeup; just a smearing of eyeliner, and is looking at me with his abnormally large eyes with absolute sincerity. “Sorry,” he says.

“Right,” I reply, and he cautiously makes his way over to the couch to sit next to me, sitting down with a heavy thump. We both look at the door, avoiding eye contact, and he carefully slips his hand down into mine, curling our fingers together. I glance at him, and he doesn’t turn his head, just looks at me slyly out of the corner of his eye.

With something approaching relief and/or exhaustion, I close my eyes and rest my head on his shoulder, slouching to do so. Me, I intend to sit like that for a long time, maybe go to sleep, maybe never get up. Vince seems, for once, to be content to just stay still and quiet as well.

However, the world has other ideas, and almost as soon as I lay my head down, there’s another knock on the open door, and a woman pops her scarf-wrapped head inside.

“Hellooooooooooooooooo,” She purrs demurely, through heavily lipstick covered lips, “Howard Moon? I saw your advertisement in the local paper, and I was intrigued. My husband is deceased, and I was wondering if you would be able to,” She pauses, inhaling a long drag of smoke from a cigarette protruding from the tip of a long black holder and exhales around her lips, letting the smoke waft around her round face, “Assist me.”

I stand up, letting go of Vince’s hand with a twinge. “What’s your name, Ma’am?” I ask, and she takes a seat in front of my desk, running a long-nailed finger down her full breast.

“Eleanor,” she says, fluttering her eyelashes at me. She purrs a long story out from defined lips, detailing some cliche story of inheritance, distant family members and conniving neighbours, slipping her widowed status into the narrative more times than is strictly necessary, and certainly with more pouting and lip licking than is even loosely necessary.

She finishes her story, and taps cigarette (maybe her third) ash onto my note-pad with a long, blood red nail. “So, Mr Moon… may I call you Howard? Howard, darling, would you be so kind as to investigate this lonely woman’s… mysteries?”

Before I can answer, there is a hand on my shoulder, and Vince says, “Sure we will, right Howard?”

I glance up at him, and he’s grinning. “Yeah,” I say to Eleanor, and to him, pulling a yellow file from the drawer under my desk, “I’ll just need to take some details.”

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