The Book
by and ©2011 Jack Kendle. All rights reserved
TWENTY EIGHT
(SIX MONTHS LATER)
May 31st dawned bright and warm, the unusually warm spell continuing. I looked over at Lars, seventeen today - still asleep beside me. He had thrown back the sheet which had covered us during the night, those few hours we had slept – and I scrutinised his fantastic body.
No matter how many times I had seen it, I was always taken aback by his utter perfection, his flawless beauty. Since November, his musculature had become more defined, he was becoming more of a young man than a boy. He had also had a growth spurt and was now just as tall as I.
For the thousandth time, I studied him, even though I knew every inch of him, I still couldn't get enough of his beauty. I must be the luckiest person alive! I thought. Lars was mine – and I was his. Exclusively.
Our lovemaking was still an adventure, a journey into realms of such bliss, it would bring tears to my eyes. I looked over at him, lying asleep, one hand covering his cock. His chest rising and falling gently as he slept, langorous, lithe, slim - perfect. There was no other word to describe him.
I felt a lump in my throat, moved to tears by his sheer beauty and loving tenderness. Not for the first time, I wondered what I had done to deserve such a joyous life. That he was as deeply in love with me as I him, was beyond question and I thanked whatever gods there might be for the gift of this boy.
Our relationship had deepened and over the past six months we had discovered more and more about each other; films we liked, foods we hated, his dreams of the future. We introduced each other to our favourite music, artists we liked.
I had also got to know his parents better and better. They were loving and supportive of their son and of our relationship. They obviously saw how much Lars and I loved each other and how much we meant to each other.
They were also comfortable, amazingly so, I thought, with our 'arrangement', whereby Lars would spend two or three nights with me at weekends. For my part, I knew that Lars' family had to have priority and if he was unable to spend the night with me, then I would have to take second place. Of course I understood, how could I not? But those rare occasions when Lars wasn't with me, I would feel very lonely.
Simon Stafford-Jones and I had also become very close friends. He took his role as Patricia's 'protector' very seriously and often visited her or took her on various treats.
Lars looked upon Simon as a sort of favourite uncle and we sometimes spent days together, going on various jaunts wherever the fancy took us; museums, art galleries, once even to a football match – Lars was a Spurs supporter. The boy even managed to sit through a whole evening with us at the opera – no mean feat for a sixteen-year-old boy! He even said he enjoyed it!
I heard reglularly from Phyllida. She had taken Kieran away from the school where he had been so unhappy and told me how well the boy was doing.
Occasionally, Kieran himself would call me, to tell me some piece of news or keep me updated on his latest passion, which was drawing. He sent me some sketches and I could see he had a lot of talent.
Phyllida's father, it appeared, had supported her daughter's suit for divorce from Montagu. The rift between them became very public and ugly and when the news of Philip Montagu's 'indiscretions' with underage boys was 'leaked'
I guessed the probable source. Although nothing was ever proved, the Earl had no other option than to agree to Phyllida's claim for divorce. Ambrose, I gathered, had fled overseas at the first whiff of trouble, leaving his employer and partner-in-crime to fend for himself. The more popular tabloids had a field-day.
Being the first – and legitimate son of an Earl, Kieran would inherit his father's title, although probably not the estates. I somehow doubted that Montagu senior would embark on marriage a second time, particularly since he had been publicly disgraced.
Kieran would be the next Earl and I knew that the vicious cycle of child abuse had been broken and that the disgusting 'coming-of-age' ceremony was now definitely a thing of the past. I also knew that Kieran was a red-blooded, heterosexual boy; one of Phyllida's letters told me of the lad's new love-interest, the younger daughter of a Marquis and how both families were delighted with their burgeoning relationship. Birds of a feather, I thought to myself, part of me pleased for the boy, while at the same time uneasy about pressures of family, particularly the so-called aristocracy, for whom breeding was all.
What if Kieran, as most boys do, lost interest in the girl? They were, after all still very young. He might move on, sow his wild oats, perhaps finding a new girlfirend, or God forbid, someone not from his class? How would the combined forces of the aristocratic families react?
The whole business of 'mapping out' the lives of their progeny, so rife in the aristocracy, was so alien to my sensibilities. Marriages were practically arranged affairs, selective breeding de rigeur for these people. It couldn't be satisfactory. Yet the so-called 'ruling classes' had had this sytem in place for a thousand years and they were still with us. It would need great numbers of the younger generation to stand up and say 'Enough!' for anything to change.
Maybe Kieran would be one of those? However his life turned out, I hoped the boy would be happy and true to himself.
Lars stirred in his sleep, his hand slipping from his cock. Totally unable to control myself and certainly not wanting to, I knew the best way of waking the boy and a few minutes later, was rewarded with a generous offering of his cum which I eagerly swallowed.
Lars was not slow to reciprocate and yet one more time, we explored the highest regions of ecstasy together in a long drawn-out session of intense lovemaking.
"Happy birthday, sweetheart!" I said, still breathless, as we lay in each other's arms in the warm bed.
"Mmm," replied the sexy boy, his eyes closed as he lay, gently stroking my flaccid cock, still tender after our prolonged copulation. I kissed his flushed cheek, inhaling the intoxicating scent of our recent sex.
The sun shone in through the window, bathing the blond boy in a golden light. My Appollo! My Golden Greek god! The youth glowed in the sunlight, his prone body incandescent. The sun picked out his coppery pubic hair, which I had trimmed for him last night, the thick, matted bush of curled, wiry hairs surrounding the base of his thick penis and generous ballsac.
So precious! My Lars – I love you!
"Well, if you want your present, you need to get up, take a shower and get dressed!" I said, giving the boy's testicles a gentle tug.
"I thought that was my present!" murmured the boy, still supine. "You were great!"
"Flattery will get you nowhere!" I laughed. "I'll give you another ten minutes, while I have my shower, then you must get up. Okay?"
"Mmm, okay…" another murmur as my sexy boy stretched, enjoying the sun on his naked body.
I had to drag myself away from the almost dazzling sight. It was getting late and today was important.
We had to be at St. Giles Church by two pm. James and the unknown boy were to be laid to rest in the crypt and a memorial plaque to Will was to be dedicated.
Today, Lars' birthday, would be their day as well.
When I first mentioned it to Lars, he was thrilled that I had chosen his birthday for the service. The sweet boy had shed a tear. Champneys had talked the parish council and the arch-diocese around and they had given their blessing. Dr Towns was sympathetic about the remains of the boy he had excavated outside my house.
As I had expected, no-one had come forward to claim James' remains, so Simon's and my offer of interment had been accepted.
I tore myself from the bed and went for my shower and a shave.
As I was making the coffee and heating the croissants, I heard my lover follow suit and shortly he appeared in the kitchen wearing the new clothes we had bought together yesterday; pink shirt and snugly-fitting jeans, which accented the delicious, generous curves of crotch and firm, round buttocks.
I looked him over appreciatively, revelling in the sight. I would never grow tired of observing him and each time I looked at him it was as if my heart beat even more strongly in my chest – my lover! My own! Yet again, my loins stirred at the sight. Flashes of our lovemaking danced before my inner eye.
Lars sat with me at the table and as we drank our coffee, I gave him a small package, my birthday gift to my lover.
Smiling with anticipation, Lars tore open the wrapping and opened the small jeweller's box. I had bought him a delicate golden chain and small golden disc, which I had had engraved with his name on one side and on the other, the message "Forever Yours". Corny, I know, but I meant it. Really meant it. And I fervently hoped that he would be forever mine.
My thanks were two glistening eyes and a long, deep kiss. I helped him fasten the chain, kissing the top of his blond head as I did so, fingers stroking his slim neck.
"I'm so glad we found each other," he whispered, his slim hand covering mine. "I didn't know I could be so happy!" We were both close to tears, moved by the moment.
I had to wait a few moments to find my voice, before I could reply. "Me too, Lars! God knows, me too!"
We finished our late breakfast chatting about this and that, sitting close to each other, occasionally reaching over to stroke each other's face or hand.
We were interrupted by Lars' mobile. It was his parents, reminding us of their invitiation to take us out for dinner that evening to celebrate their son's birthday.
As Lars chatted to his mother, I went into the sitting room to look over the sketch I had made of Lars – clothed – I was intending to give to his parents that evening and though they were very supportive of us and liberal, even they might baulk at having a nude portrait of their son!
It showed Lars half seated, half lying on my sofa, which I had sketched as the boy was listening to some music on his iPod. His eyes were closed and he looked transported, dreaming some dream or other. When I showed it to him he said that he looked exactly as he had felt as he had listened to the music, a piece of Debussy I had introduced him to; L'Après-midi d'un faune – 'The Afternoon of a Faun'. The languid, summer afternoon in a forest clearing, dreams and reveries.
Lars was my 'faun' - mysterious, sexy.
Later that same day, I had sketched him again, listening to the same music, but this time nude. It was an even better sketch than the other, but it was firmly private; just for me and Lars.
I was tidying my desk, half listening to Lars chatting on the 'phone, when I picked up one of my sketchpads.
There was the little brown book.
I hadn't seen it for six months – had indeed almost forgotten about it. I had made one or two half-hearted attempts to find it during that time, but had always drawn a blank. I suppose it just faded from my consciousness.
But here it was again. A small, leather-bound book, worn with age. What could be more innocent than that?
My heart gave a lurch when I saw it. Not today, of all days!
I had a sinking feeling. What new horrors were waiting for me there? As always, the book being there was was no mere chance. I couldn't understand how it had had got there – 'it can only have put itself there', I thought to myself. Wishing I could avoid it, but knowing that I couldn't, I almost reluctantly leant down and picked it up.
The pages were still empty … no … the very last page in the book had writing on it. I steeled myself to read it, silently cursing. I had no choice in the matter, no free will as far as the book was concerned.
Read it I must…
and read it I did.
The fight is o'er, the battle won
Thy travails in the past are done.
Go forth in life, let darkness pass
Thou hast thy wishe; thou hast thy Lars.
The poetry was still doggerel, that hadn't changed. I smiled to myself wryly. At least it wasn't another sad tale of a poor lost boy. This poem, addressed to me, held out hope; Lars and me.
Gradually, the ink faded until it finally disappeared, Lars' name the last to go.
I put the book down on the coffee table. To me, the verse marked both an end – and a new beginning. No more puzzles, no more wrongs to right; the pieces in the jigsaw of my life had now fallen into place.
The journey over, I had my Lars.
I felt the boy's presence by my side, his warm breath on my neck as he peered over my shoulder at the book.
"That old thing!" he said with a laugh. "Haven't seen that in a while! Done any more sketches?"
He still thought it was a sketchbook and I saw no reason to correct him. Not exactly deceit, rather a 'need-to-know- basis. Perhaps one day I would tell him the real reason behind my hectic and strange week in November.
I wondered how long the book would be in my posession; according to the weird man whom I had met at the bookshop back then, the book had a habit of resurfacing and going to different owners. When would it finally disappear from my life?
"No," I smiled, "Nothing new!" I knew that if the book had a new story for me, it would make its presence felt.
He looked appreciatively at the nude I had done of him.
"Tasty dude!" he said with a smile. "You should post it on the 'Net for all those sad old wankers out there!"
I cuffed him gently, but part of me was serious.
"No, sweet boy! Firstly, I would never do that to you and secondly, those 'sad old wankers' as you so eloquently put it, are people just like you and me who, for one reason or another, feel unable or are prevented from being themselves in the world. You're lucky that you have such understanding and loving parents, so that you don't have to keep that part of our life a secret. And I know that you're not being bullied at school. But you must realise that this is by no means the norm. So many young teens are confused by their sexuality, they feel that they are some kind of a freak for having those feelings for the same sex. How many poor youths find no way out and end up hurting themselves, or worse, because of how society and their peers react to them? Those 'sad old wankers' are sad, that's possibly true, but they have the right to live in the world as they are and if images of beautiful, sexy boys on the Internet is all they have and they don't act out their fantasies or harm others, then we must respect them."
Lars looked both sad and serious.
"Sorry, Pete. You're right, of course. I just take it for granted how lucky I am. But I don't take it for granted how much I love you and what you mean to me. I hope you know that?"
He looked so contrite and almost vulnerable, I had to take him in my arms.
"You're a good boy, Lars. I do know that!" I whispered into his ear, my senses almost reeling from his closeness, his scent, his wonderful teen body pressed to mine.
"And it's I who is the lucky one! I'm in love with the most incredibly sexy, beautiful boy – or should I say young man now? And he's in love with me! We should count our blessings!"
We stood, pushing against each other, our kisses becoming longer and harder, our by now throbbing cocks mashing against each other through our clothing.
Alas, we didn't have time to do what both of us obviously wanted and I reluctantly broke our embrace, but not before giving his hardness a long, firm hold.
"We need to get going," I whispered, knowing that if we didn't get moving now, both our resolves would disintegrate and we would end up making love yet again.
That would have to wait until later. Something to look forward to.
Something made me slip the little book into my jacket pocket. In a strange way I thought that bringing it would be like closing the circle, making an end. I felt its slight weight in my pocket as we went downstairs and out of the house, strolling leisurely through the May sunshine to St. Giles.
AFTERNOON, St. GILES CHURCH.
Douglas Champneys was waiting for us at the church when Lars and I arrived, shortly before two o'clock.
I had also sent word to Dr. Towns, who promised to be there for the interment of the unknown boy from the 17th Century. I had also contacted DSI Morrison, letting him know about the short service I had planned. He said he would come if he could.
Simon and Patricia arrived just after us and as we waited to see if there would be any one else, the Rector explained to us how the short service would proceed.
"The crypt has been prepared," he said, "and after the committal, we shall come back up here and dedicate the marker." He indicated a place on the floor of the nave, in front of the altar, which was covered by a black cloth, under which was a tablet of stone engraved with the text that I had composed.
"There shall be some music," Champneys went on, "the organist and John, our head chorister will sing, after which we shall move down to the south wall, and dedicate the wall-plaque, which is here…" he indicated the spot where I had imagined or 'seen' Will's image. This was also covered by a dark oblong of black velvet. Patricia, Simon and I had agreed on the text.
"… you will be saying a few words at this point, Mr Taylor?" I nodded in assent.
Champneys consulted a sheet of paper in his prayer book and then went on, "and finally, another piece of music… I think that's covered it all…"
As he was speaking, Dr Towns and Inspector Morrison entered the church at the same time. Towns was not wearing his bobble-hat and had managed to find a dark suit and tie in which he looked distinctly uncomfortable. He took my hand in one of his great bearlike paws. "Good idea of yours, Mr Taylor," he said. "Not many people would be bothered…"
Morrison also shook my hand. He leant close to me and spoke in a low voice: "Found my brother, Mr Taylor! Thanks to you, we managed to locate him. All is forgiven and forgotten. He made peace with our father just before the old man died. I'm so glad for that! My brother is getting used to being back in the family." He looked sad for a moment.
"Too many years, too much hate and misunderstanding!" He seemed to visibly shake off his mood and drew himself up, looking me in the eye, "But it's over now and everything is working out fine! Thank you again for your help!"
I tried to demur, but the policeman went on:
"We broke that kiddie-porn ring and reunited that poor boy with his family. We got a lot of information and made arrests in six countries!"
I knew. I had read about the case and the trial in the papers. A lot of famous and influential people had been implicated and jailed. I was glad. The bastards deserved all they got.
Yet how many boys were still lost or hopelessly trapped in some sex-slavery situation somewhere? At least I had played a part in breaking the ring up, but as the detective had said at the time; you close down one, another one will start up somewhere else. It was a continual battle. But someone like Morrison, I knew, wouldn't give up.
Yet it wasn't really just me who had led to these results. It had been the little brown book. Without it, that particular cell would be still operating. I could, however, take some comfort from the fact that one boy, at least, had been saved. The book had also finally brought justice for Will and, if you believed it, rest for James Venables and the unknown boy.
It was the the little brown book which had brought us all together in this place. I had just been the catalyst.
And I felt it wasn't just this small group of people gathered here on this bright, warm Saturday in May. It was as if I felt the presence of countless others, all those who had suffered at the hands of evil people for no other reason than they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Would they find peace? Somehow, in this sunlit church, I thought, or rather I hoped, that they would.
As the little group waited in the church, I reflected that I thought I had followed the exhortation of the strange man who had pressed the book into my hands that wet November day: Use it wisely. Do no harm.
I took the book out of my pocket and held it in my hand as we descended into the crypt.
Just as we were moving down the stairs, another person came into the church.
Albert Pennyweather.
I hadn't seen him for some time. Both, my time had been largely taken up with Lars and also I had heard that Albert had been in hospital. He looked older and thinner, but still carried himself erect. He had on his best suit and a crisply ironed shirt and black tie. In his hand he held his slightly flamboyant fedora. With an inward grin, I thought how much like an undertaker he looked. He gave me a brief nod, before we all filed down into the crypt.
Two niches had been prepared and were occupied by two coffins.
James, the poor tormented boy, starved to death by his mad father. James, who had for a while, haunted me and my flat. James, who had been an almost tangible presence, affecting me in a most intimate way.
I looked over at the living boy by my side, who affected me in the same way and I thought my heart would burst in my chest for love of this exceptional youth.
I said a silent farewell to James.
And the unknown boy, whose body had almost miraculously lain undisturbed in the ground beneath a busy London street since the seventeenth century.
An unknown boy who, it had been clear, had been bludgeoned to death. Had he been a poor mistreated servant? Or maybe of higher birth, perhaps robbed? Perhaps something even more sinister, another youth who had been sacrificed as a result of abuse, a plaything for some older, stronger man who had tired of him and had just disposed of him? No-one would ever know.
One thing was certain; however he had died, it was obviously murder and he could not possibly have deserved the death he had suffered.
Now, at least, he would not be lying forgotten under the streets of London or his bones an exhibit in a museum. The gravestone upstairs, soon to be dedicated, would release him from his lonely anonymity and his poor, broken young body would lie beneath this church for ages to come.
Douglas Champneys began the service. He did not use the Anglican form of burial, but had created a special text, addressing us all as friends, talking of man's inhumanity to man, of love and forgiveness – and, to my surprise, touching on the right of human beings to love whom they would, without censure or prejudice.
He spoke quietly, eloquently and with much feeling. I hadn't expected this. His eulogy was a plea for tolerance and understanding, for the rights of those whom society shunned. He spoke of abuse, physical and mental and reminded us of our duty to love each other.
I felt as if he were talking directly to me and Lars. Indeed, he looked over at us several times during the short speech, as if he knew exactly our relationship and for him, it was the most natural thing in the world.
He told us to honour each other, give each other room to self-express, respect the other's point of view. It was almost like an address at a wedding than at a funeral!
There was definitely more to Douglas Champneys than met the eye.
Finally, he committed the boys' bodies to the ground, adding, 'in the hope of tolerance and understanding in the world.'
I could see that his words had a profound effect on all of us standing there. Even Albert once or twice murmured 'Hear, hear!' which brought a grin to us all, even at that solemn occasion.
We filed passed the niches on our way out of the crypt. I silently bade farewell to James and the unknown boy, who would now spend eternity next to each other. The thought comforted me.
In the nave, Douglas removed the covering on the memorial which had been placed on the floor of the nave. It was a slab of Bath stone, a warm, honey colour on which had been inscribed:
BENEATH THIS PLACE
LIE THE MORTAL REMAINS
OF
JAMES VENABLES
AND ALSO AN UNKNOWN BOY FROM THIS PARISH
WHO DIED FAR BEFORE THEIR TIME
AS THE RESULT OF MAN'S INHUMANITY TO MAN.
THIS MEMORIAL IS FOR ALL THOSE NAMELESS CHILDREN.
THINK OF THEM AS YOU GO ABOUT YOUR DAILY LIVES
"I ONCE WAS LOST, BUT NOW AM FOUND"
As we stood around the simple stone, the first piece of music Simon and I had chosen began playing.
It was a setting of the Magnificat , "My soul doth magnify the Lord" – the so-called 'Stanford in G' a solo which thousands of choristers have sung in churches and cathedrals throughout the country.
I looked over at Simon. He stood erect, his eyes closed and silently mouthing the words. He must have sung this famous solo many times. And Will had probably sung it here, all those years ago.
Now, the pure, sweet notes from the boy treble floated over us and the May sunshine struck the memorial stone, making it glow a deep, rich honey colour.
After the final notes had died away, Douglas began the dedication. The words passed over me. I was thinking of those two, small bodies, lying in their coffins beneath our feet. Two innocent boys who had been cruelly slaughtered, without reason, by those who, through their superior strength had dominated them and subdued them, finally ending their short lives.
Poor James! The boy had called to me across the years and through him, he was now resting here, instead of behind a false wall in the basement of my home.
And the discovery of the unknown boy, I was convinced, was also somehow planned, some higher force or whatever you will call it, had caused the skeleton to be found at exactly the same time as the little brown book was telling me the stories of Will and Philip Montagu and poor Tom, the child who, once he had satisfied his employer's crazed lusts, was tossed away like any other garbage.
Poor Tom! His body would never be found, but this memorial was for him – and the countless other young boys who had just disappeared through the centuries, after what had most probably been a short and deeply unhappy existence.
The were lost but had been found again.
Concentrated on this small spot, the stone a focal point for our thoughts and desires that such things should never be allowed to happen. All life is precious.
I was aware of a silence. I looked up and saw that the deidcation was over.
Douglas was leading us down to the main body of the church, to where the memorial to Will was waiting.
Simon and I stood on either side of Patricia, who looked sad, yet peaceful. She had brought with her a small bunch of flowers and they were now placed in a vase on a pedestal beneath the tablet.
We stood in a small semicircle and Douglas began to speak.
"From what I have heard from his boyhood friend, Simon, Will had the most beautiful and pure voice and his singing literally seemed to light up this place. It seems fitting that we dedicate this memorial to him on such a sunny and warm day and I personally am convinced that Will is now enjoying eternal sun and warmth. We shall not dwell on the evil things, but on the good. Let this memorial bring thoughts of joy to those who knew him and memories of his wonderful singing. And to you, Patricia, comfort and closure."
Douglas pulled a cord and the cloth fell away from the wall.
IN LOVING MEMORY OF
WILL FREMANTLE
SOMETIME HEAD CHORISTER AT ST GILES
THIS MEMORIAL IS PLACED BY HIS MOTHER AND FRIENDS.
"FOREVER AT REST"
It was made of the same honey-gold stone as the other memorial and yesterday, before it had been mortared into place and with Patricia's permission, I had placed Will's head chorister's medal in a space in the wall behind it. Patricia had requested that the shortened version of her son's name be used on the memorial, she wanted it to be less formal than the boy's gravestone.
Douglas looked over at me with a slight nod; my cue to speak. Closing my eyes, the small leatherbound book still in my hands, I saw the image of the surpliced choirboy in my mind's eye and I addressed him personally.
"Will. I never met you, but I feel I know you. Some things can't be explained, nor should we perhaps try and explain them, but your story has been told and justice will be served. I am only glad that I could be of help. Wherever you are, may you rest in peace and may you sing with the angels as an angel yourself. Goodbye, young friend. We will never forget you."
Patricia squeezed my arm and looking over at Simon, I saw that his cheeks were wet with tears.
The soft notes of the organ heralded our second choice of music:
Oh for the wings, for the wings of a dove
Far away, far away would I rove
Oh for the wings, for the wings of a dove
Far away, Far away, Far away, Far away would I rove.
In the wilderness build me a nest
And remain there forever at rest
In the wilderness build me, build me a nest
And remain there forever at rest.
In the wilderness build me a nest
And remain there forever at rest
Forever at rest
Forever at rest.
And remain there forever at rest
And remain there forever at rest.
The current head chorister, John – whom I had heard in this same place six months ago on the day I had found Will's diary – began to sing the Mendelssohn. Effortlessly, his pure voice filled the church.
It must have been my emotional state, or maybe a trick of the acoustics, but I could have sworn I heard another, fainter, even purer voice join in, the voices like two songbirds, soaring skywards with a subdued yet impassioned joy.
The music stopped and the voices faded away.
Will was finally gone.
The silence was deep, emotional, calm.
Gradually the world encroached again and Douglas was quietly thanking us for being there and shaking our hands. I was aware of Lars by my side, holding my arm. The boy's eyes were wet with tears.
"That was lovely, Pete…" I squeezed his arm.
The small party began to break up. Inspector Morrison said he would keep in touch and Simon said he would take Patricia home.
Douglas thanked me and said he had to be getting back to his wife and young son.
As he was shaking my hand, his eye fell on the book which I was still holding.
"What an old-looking pryaerbook, Peter! I thought you were not a religious man!"
He reached over, "May I?" Now I knew that the book had had a purpose – it had made me take it with me to the church. Another twist in the plot.
However, this time, I had no qualms or misgivings about what it contained. I knew that the book was working for good now and whatever it contained, I knew would be relevant.
I handed the Rector the worn leather book.
Douglas opened it – there was the picture of the bygone clergyman, as I had first seen it six months ago. There was nothing else.
Champneys raised his eyes and looked at me owlishly from behind his spectacles.
"How curious This is a portrait of one of my forbears here, the Reverend Jeremiah Jenkins! What a strange coincidence! I am at present writing a short history of this parish and turned up some interesting facts about this man. He was a champion for 'distressed youthes' as it was described back then. He would go into the streets around here and rescue the delinquent or abandoned boys bringing them back to the small abbey here, where he trained them for holy orders. He was considered a saint by many, but alas, it seems, evil and powerful people spread the rumour that he was not all that he seemed to be, that he was spreading heresy and also er … sexually mistreating the boys in his care. Apparently he even wrote tracts about the unfortunates in his care, under an assumed name, er… Izaak… er…"
"Waldon," I finished the sentence for him.
"Yes, that's right, Izaak Waldon. He published the book at a press which was located where the public house, "The Crown" now stands. The charges were trumped up, but enough people were made to believe the terrible things he was accused of and it was later found to be that he was quite innocent, but not until after he was hanged. Right here where the Seven Dials monument stands! Poor man! He was a genuine 'Good Shepherd' and died for his good deeds. How odd that his picture should be in this little book!"
Champneys handed it back to me.
"Jenkins' maxim was Do No Harm . It was carved over the door to the old church." He sighed. "A saintly man indeed."
We said our goodbyes.
The little brown book could certainly still surprise me. I tucked it back into my pocket.
Albert came over. "That was a lovely occasion," he said, "I'm glad I was still around to be here for it!"
He gave a slight grin. He really didn't look well, his recent illness had obviously taken its toll.
"By the way, Albert," I said, "something's been nagging at me. Remember that little book I showed you, in the pub?"
Albert's smile grew broader. "Yes?"
"I was just wondering, er… what.." I wondered how to continue. I felt as if I might be trespassing on something private, something which had nothing to do with me and I began to regret broaching the subject. But Albert smiled on, his eyes now bright.
"Oh, that! Yes?" He wasn't making it easy for me, but I saw that he wasn't annoyed or being defensive, so I ploughed on.
"Well, what did you … I mean, was there anything in the book? I thought the pages were blank!"
"Oh, no, not all of them!" Albert's eyes were positively twinkling now and his grin even broader.
"There was one page…" he went on.
I found myself holding my breath. What had he seen in the little brown book? Albert seemed to enjoy keeping me in suspense. He paused again before continuing.
"It was a short message. Just a couple of lines…"
Again he paused, like a conjuror, teasing, giving himself time for the full effect of his magic trick.
He grew slightly more serious, but I could still see the glint of enjoyment in his eye.
"I was widowed twenty years ago," he went on, "Cancer."
I began to murmur some platitude or other, but Albert had started speaking again.
"Shortly before she died, Dolores, that was her name, said to me that she would wait for me on the other side and would do all she could to get in touch with me. I didn't have the heart to tell her that I didn't believe in all that nonsense – I'd lost my faith years before - but she said she would, almost insisted, so of course I humoured her."
I began to suspect the kind of message Albert had seen in the book.
"Mercifully, Dolores died before the tragic death of our son, David."
A look of pain crossed Albert's face. "David was a young man, in the prime of life. He had trained to be an architect…"
Again Albert paused, but his mood was now more sombre.
"… I was devastated. David and his best friend, Giles, - I suppose these days you would call them gay partners – were attacked coming out of a pub. A group of drunken yobbos picked on them – it was a pub known for its tolerance towards homosexual men. You'd call it a gay bar now, I suppose. Anyway, they were beaten up for no other reason than they were seen coming out of that particular pub. It was a savage attack and the two young men were stabbed. They died from their wounds and no-one was ever arrested."
"I'm so sorry, Albert," I said. Inadequate, but I had no other words.
Next to me, Lars had gone pale and held on to me tightly.
Albert reflected for a moment before continuing. "But, your little book!" His mood grew lighter again.
"Your little book did have a message for me! It was from Dolores! It said: ' The boys are with me and we are looking forward to having you with us, but be patient, your time is not yet.' Then she said something which proved it could only be her – something only she and I knew. And then I knew that it was her and that she had done what she promised; she had got in touch with me! Now I know I shall be reuinted with her and my son and Giles. Tha's what I saw in the book, Peter and now I can tell you how grateful and happy I am!"
Albert looked at Lars and me, the same beatific smile I had seen on him after he had first seen the little brown book.
"And I hope you two will be happy together and not meet the same bigoted intolerance and blind hate which ended David's and Giles' lives."
We shook hands and as he left the church he said he very much hoped to see us soon at the "Crown" – but not to leave it too long 'just in case!' The last was said with a smile and a laugh.
Lars and I were left alone in the sun-filled empty church. I looked over at the two new memorials, glowing in the sunlight. I knew then, that for sure, that the book had finished with me.
I had done my duty by the boys who were now commemorated here.
Duty? No, an obligation, but one which I was glad to have fulfilled.
I knew now that the book had played its part in my life. I could now put it away and forget about it and I just knew that if I did look for it at home anytime, it would be gone.
When would it resurface? With what stories and for whom?
I felt a lightness, as if some burden had been lifted from me, which in a way, it had. I now had my life with Lars to look forward to.
I looked deep into my lover's bright blue eyes.
Drawn together we held each other tightly gently kissing, full on the mouth – church or no church, I was sure that Champney's God wouldn't mind at all.
I felt the presences of Will and James and the unknown boy and knew they approved.
"Let's go home, Lars! We have a birthday to celebrate!"
THE END
