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You are here: Home > Story Shelf > All Authors > Rafael Henry > Omnia Vincit Amor | Chapter 8 | Rafael Henry

Omnia Vincit Amor

by Rafael Henry

Chapter 8

Safe Journey Rafael

This final part is completed by Another.

My audition, I thought, had gone well. I prepared a short Purcell piece, one of a series of songs suitable for my voice; a tenor. I have been in this City a month, now suitably bedded in with my music course at the Polytechnic and my 'digs' in a terraced house just a twenty-minute walk from the college. After my short stint as a chorister at S. Mary's in Ottery, I didn't want to waste the progress I had made there, not to mention the pleasure it gave me working with the youngsters, some of whom were schooled at Frendon. We would go on a Thursday evening to our weekly rehearsal for the Sunday services in our minibus driven by Raphael, who had a pretty decent base voice himself. Tenors are more sought after than the ubiquitous base voices who are, let's face it, ten a penny in my book. How rude of me! Well it's a fact, I thought, but apparently I'm wrong, according to Raphael who told me in no uncertain terms that we are not a rarer breed.

Three days later I had the email to inform me that I had been accepted as a Lay Clerk on a provisional basis and my longevity in the small but elite organization would depend on my attendance record and my ability to 'fit in'. Thus I was appointed a Probationer, and joined the other Chorister Probationers none of whom were older than eight, bless their little cotton socks, all with what sounded to me, when they spoke, a very foreign northern English accent. Ok, let's give it a go. Why did I think that everyone sounds like I do, a south westerner with a non-accent?

I had been turned down by the other sister church because, they said, they didn't need another base voice at the time. At least they listened to me which was nice of them. I wondered about the faith issue but I was assured that I didn't need to be a practising Catholic, or even subscribe to the Faith, which largely I do not. But like a lot of people, there is a part of me that does. This also applies to my friend Raphael, and surprisingly to my younger friend Kirit whom I have discovered was born in Minsk, Belarus, and of the Catholic faith by reason of birth. Well, he can't help that.

The Anglicans have bowed to gender pressure and admitted girls to almost all of their Cathedral choirs now in this Year of Our Lord, 2025. Not so the Catholic Church who seem to be sticking to the boys, rigidly, to sing the top line. There are twenty-four of them in our setup aged from seven to thirteen, the vast majority of them lovely in terms of their demeanour, and a few in terms of the physical attributes too. Not that I would really notice such qualities. Suffice it to say that I look forward to our rehearsals and the four services we sing together as a tight little community. We all robe up as a group, some of the boys still in their games kit having rushed over from a rugby or football match commitment, anxious not to be late and annoy our very gay and Esteemed Leader, our EL, Geoffrey, occasionally with muddy knees. The boys, not him! I can't imagine Geoffrey ever had muddy knees, or even set foot on any Games field. Of course no one will know what a boy looks like under cassock and surplice, but I do. I am pleased to report that not all boys have opted for the stretchy shorts style underwear very prevalent in this day and age of safeguarding hysteria, not that that's the reasoning. Some still resist and insist on simple brief pants that are mandatory at Frendon, which I thought were the height of good manners and taste. All a matter of how you see these things I suppose, and for harassed mothers, a matter of expedience and ease of drying kids' clothes. I have noticed with some pleasure how the oldest boy choristers look after the young ones, lovingly, dare I say it. To watch that little boy looking up into that handsome older boy's face, keen to soak up all his wisdom, and whatever else the boy might have to offer, I like to think, is a joy to behold. But enough of all that.

I rather like Geoffrey, our young[ish] E L. He's very Welsh, and amusingly camp, but I have no plans to hop into bed with him. He's too short and dark for me, and I suspect still a virgin, apart from the odd dalliance at his prep school. This Gentleman of the Choir much prefers blonds, and there's no way I could cope with that accent morning, noon and during the night, even in the medium term. Give me a Devon burr any day.

I've kept in touch with Raphael via my mobile phone so not only could I keep tabs on Kirit but also hear all the general news of the goings on at Frendon. Sunday evenings after the earlier than weekdays 3.30 Evensong is our usual time to chat and share news.

'How are you, you young scallywag? We miss you.'

'Oh that's nice. I miss you too.'

'And so you should. How are things your end?'

'My end is in fine fettle thank you, and more broadly speaking, things are progressing on most fronts.'

'How about the romantic front…….and back?'

I laughed.

'None of that going on up here Raf. We have a queer choirmaster but he's very Welsh and not particularly palatable, sad to say. At least he's not quite my cup of tea.'

'Oh crikey! Is that the best you can do? Surely there's some crumpet on the front row to admire? Or even in the back row with all those velvety deep voices?'

'Sadly not, at least nothing that's emerged from any closets as yet and headed in my direction. One or two pretty flowers in front of me though.'

'Oh that's nice for you.'

'You know me quite well now Raf. I can appreciate beauty in both sexes, but there's just the one that really makes my sap rise.'

'I like that! Is that what you call it? Sap? I'll have to inform Kirit of that little gem. So you're still sticking to your age restrictions are you?'

'Pas necessairement mon chere. But I could be flexible.'

'Oh a nother gem. You could be flexible! Kirit won't like you being flexible at all . That smacks of a lack of commitment darling. He wants you in-flexible, rigid and hot.'

'Like the average red-hot poker!'

'Absolutement! Me too. It's not just these little boys who fancy you on toast. Or flat on your back while they perch themselves on top, smiling down at you with…….well you know what . Enough said. One or two of them have asked me where you are now. We all miss you darling. So when are you coming back? You can't abandon these little critters for ever, can you?'

'No. I can't. You know I loved it at Frendon. I really did.'

'Oh crikey, I know that voice of yours. You're not going to get maudlin on me are you? Mind you I'd give my life for these kids, willingly.'

'If you had to?'

'I am now, in a way. And yes I would. They deserve rescuing. A boy like Kirit. If he was drowning, any decent person would attempt a rescue; wouldn't they?'

'Yes we would. But I'm not there now to effect a rescue, even if I could, which is far from certain.'

'You should be. Or could be later, when you've learnt the piano sufficiently well. Or whatever you do up there in the wild and woolly north. He needs you. He loves you. What would you do if you saw him dipping below the waves and about to lose his dear life?'

'I would go to him. Pull him back from the brink.'

'And then make love with him on the beach, all wet and shiny. Not to him. With him , together in climactic bliss, sap all over the place. In excelsis!'

'Yes. Exactly that. In excelsis deo!'

'A taste of honey too.'

'Yes that too. Look, can we talk about something else?'

'Oh. Do we have to? I was rather enjoying the taste of……..honey.'

'Ok, I really do think that's enough now Raf. I'm beginning to feel…….'

'Not yucky I hope? It's not yucky my dear friend. You should try it.'

'No, not that. Something else. You know I cry easily don't you.'

'I do. That indicates sensitivity Mike. That's a good thing. A strength. I think you are a very sensitive person, emotionally, and physically too.'

'You mean sexually.'

'Umm. Just like Kirit, and Felix, and Peter, and me really. We are but one kind dear boy. Not a bad thing in my book.'

'Bed? Not book.' I joked.

'A good place to do it don't you think?'

'Yes. And other places can be nice; so I'm told.'

'Indeed so. Like around the headland on Sidmouth beach? I'm sorry I had to disturb you two. I suspected you and Kirit had come to an arrangement at last . Was I correct?'

'Yes you were. Why did you think that? You never said anything.'

'Boys can't hide things like that. When they get excited about something that they think is about to happen.'

'Oh yes. I remember now.'

'You had obviously been necking like there was no tomorrow. I can always tell with boys because they keep licking their lips and wiping saliva off their mouths with the back of a hand……and then wiping it over their clean shorts. And the other stuff. They always seem so unprepared for what they are about to produce; or receive. I suppose the moment becomes too urgent for them to prepare for it so it just goes where it will go, willy nilly. They can be very messy little so-and-so's.'

Raphael is often like this. He likes to hold conversations full of sexual inuendo and references to past events that can embarrass. But then he can get serious, especially on the subject of love.

'We teach the boys to love, as you will know by now Mike, not just the planet but each other, and just as importantly, themselves, so if Kirit needs to direct his loving towards you Mike, you cannot reject that love any more than he cannot accept yours, even if his is a naïve and hopeless version. He has to understand his emotions and come to terms with the realities in his life. What he needs, as do all our boys, is to believe he's valued and loved in the best ways we can possibly provide. It's what we stand for here. Teaching the boys to love requires showing them that in real and messy life they can and will still love. What more can I say Mike.'

'Nothing Raf. I think you've said it all. So how's the boy doing?'

'I'm assuming you're referring to yours ?'

'Umm, if I can put it that way.'

'You can put it any way you like Mike. That I do know. Yes, he's fine…….and missing you needless to say. He's with Peter now. They're CP'S.'

'Oh gosh. Wonderful. How's that going?'

'Pretty well by the sounds of things.'

'Sounds? Is that what I'm thinking it is?'

'Yes. He wants me to send you a few bits and pieces.'

'Oh does he. Exactly what Raf?'

'Some sound files. He thought you would like them. A sort of reminder you might say.'

'Reminder of what! Nothing visual I hope?'

'Through the post? I think not! Anyway you know what the boys look like. How is your visual memory old boy?' Raf asks, as I sense him smiling.

'Pretty good thanks. Some things are indelibly etched.'

'Yes, quite. No, nothing visual so don't worry on that score. And everything genuine as it happens. Actually it happens very regularly with those two these days. They seem ultimately compatible.'

'Umm. Peter is a year older?'

'More or less, yes. He has one more year here, theoretically, and Kirit has two before we pack him off somewhere else. Bye the bye, I've heard from his surrogate mum, Helga. She's going back to Belarus shortly and taking Balac and Baylam and Calley with her. The immigration people are hounding her. Deportation looms. I said Kirit might need to stay here with us as part of the family with her gracious permission. She jumped at that possibility. So I asked her to contact Social Services about him and make some prelim enquiries about appointing us as his legal guardians, on a temporary basis.'

'Us?'

'Yes, or you. I think I shall appoint you dear boy.'

'You're joking I hope.'

'Yes. Don't you want him now?'

'That's very funny…….not.'

'Anyway, you've got some audio files coming to your mailbox matey. Enjoy, but I suggest you listen in bed.'

'Oh, like that are they?'

'Indeed they will be. Haven't done it yet, or rather they haven't done it yet. Well they have done it, but not what we're talking about. Kirit mentioned a few photos too. He thought you might like to see him in the flesh again, albeit at a distance. You ok with that? Nothing untoward I can assure you. I'll lend him a spare laptop and he can sort it, with Peter's help. He might get down to his pants but that's all. You won't be compromised dear boy. He's come on a tad now, as has Peter.'

'Ok, fine. That would be nice.'

'And the last thing. Are you able to visit during the Christmas hols?'

'Not sure about that Raf. I'll have loads of assignments to get through. Best leave it for a while.'

'Oh. Other fish to fry?'

'No, not at all. Absolutely nothing I can assure you. Give Kirit my love. You will do that won't you?'

'Of course! Am I sensing a little emotion in your voice?'

'Umm, a bit. I think I had better go now Raf.'

'Fine darling. What about a chat with him on the phone?'

'No, not even that. I don't think I could. Anyway I don't think that would do either of us any good to be honest.'

'Ok. That's fine. But listen to him please, when you get the files. He wants to write to you as well. Is that allowed?'

'Yes, but tell him I'm very busy and I may not reply straight away.'

'Alright. I will tell him. I think he's written his letter already. I'll phone again at the weekend matey; take care. We love you. Bye.'

I don't anticipate getting any mail, living in student accommodation as I do, so when something appears in my pigeon hole at college I'm rather thrilled, especially as the postmark over the postage stamp on the envelope tells me it was mailed from the main sorting office in Exeter. It looks like a birthday card, and when I open it, hurriedly, I find that it is. It's one of those homemade ones that reminds me of those we made at school for special occasions, like for Mothers Day. On the front is a collage of photos featuring Kirit and Peter, who thankfully is Kirit's Considerate Partner now. All the snaps show the boys together, delightfully relaxed and seemingly happy, very happy in fact, assuring me that life at Frendon is suiting them both very well these days, since my necessary departure. There are a couple that look like beach holiday photos, probably taken during Kirit's holiday with Peter's people just a few weeks ago back in the summer hols, after the week he spent with Felix's family in Suffolk. Kirit looks as beautiful as ever, lightly tanned and resplendent in his emerald green swimming briefs, or perhaps they are not swimming briefs. It's hard to tell. Likewise Peter, in classic navy blue. Other snaps feature the two boys in everyday activities around and about at Frendon; all suggesting friendship and companionship, and all rather lovely. And then I open the card. Inside is one of the now almost redundant CD music discs that we used to go into town and buy, or order online. Kirit has written inside in his usual unruly handwriting but transcribed here, with my comments in brackets, rather drawing attention to some grammatical errors, pedantic me.

To the birthday Boy! Happy birthday to you! 18 now - I hope you like the cd and the photoes michael [What? No capital letter?!]. we hope you like the cd [again] we loved making it hope you lOVE it too. [Ah, a full stop at last.]. will you come back soon? Hope so!!

At least he spelt 'come' correctly. Having said that, no one proof reads perfectly, as no doubt this piece proves that rule, and other rules that can be applied to this writer……no one is perfect. We all have our faults, and in my case some I wish I didn't have, but it seems I can do nothing about them.

Luckily the laptop computers at the Poly are older types and can accommodate and play a CD. Students are free to remove the College's machines and make use of them elsewhere, which is very handy.

I could access the data on the disc immediately, so no passwords or any of that stuff needed. I don't know if Kirit and presumably Peter as well had any help compiling this document, but it's in high definition and nicely put together. It begins with a series of photographs taken by a third party. Might that be Raphael? The two boys might be unclothed and the photos are cropped to leave just their heads and bare shoulders in the frames. By 'unclothed' I'm not suggesting the boys are both completely nude. This might be Raphael playing games with me. But it might not be. He's good at saying more by saying less .

'Less is more Michael'. I often heard him say that little snippet of double entende. How true that is. And in terms of what clothing boys wear, less is definitely more! More to admire.

The boys look at each other, unsmiling. In the next few shots, they smile at each other and their faces gradually move closer together, and finally their mouths meet in a sweet and enduring embrace with hands behind heads. The images of these acts of pure affection move me. What moves me most is the fact that Kirit has clearly discovered Peter. He has found that Peter has a special ability and qualities that have enabled them both to develop their personalities further, and to become more successful in their relationships. He has found something for the first time , or something that he had not known about before. The shot stays just above waist height, and I can only conjecture about what's below stairs.

That's what I want to think.

Moving on, the embrace is now the beginning of the video proper. They finish the kiss, then separate leaving a foot between them, and smile in rather a coy way, eyes focused on eyes, which has me welling up, the boys' hands on the other's shoulders. Tongues run over lips, mouths fall open, the gap between them closes, and they begin again, hands pulling heads forward, this time with a boyish, almost clumsy eagerness that has me reaching for a tissue. I am so happy for Kirit.

Blinking again, my eyes now clear, I wait.

Now there's a caption inserted. OUR FIRST KISS. IT WAS LOVELY!

I doubt if that was their first kiss.

The video restarts. The shot shows Kirit and Peter's heads, nothing more, apparently lying down, with Kirit under him. The boys are kissing again, their mouths animated and with vigorous tongues within each other's mouths, the wordless sounds of their erotic activity loud and clear. I can only speculate what they are doing with their bodies. After a minute or so the shot fades into complete darkness. I have only sound now to guide me through this perfectly lovely event taking place here. What a nice birthday gift this promises to be.

My experience is now confined just to sound. Only sound, but it's clear and in perfect quality. They must have the camera face down very close to their heads as the device picks up each and every breath the boys take, each and every little whisper they exchange, each and every sound that perfectly describes their heightening psycho-sexual co-experience, sounds that might suggest a slight degree of discomfort from Kirit, the sounds of physical effort from dear Peter as he breathes ever deeper and faster. The boys are in complete unison now, breathing hard together in sharp intakes and slow exhalations until Peter whispers two syllables, just the two we all know so well when we know that the inevitable is about to happen. All boys and girls know what those words mean. Now the boys' breathing comes in short sharp breaths as the cathartic event unfolds, supremely erotic as the final ecstatic moments are reached. What sounds they are, saying so much more than pictures ever could. Everything slows down, the breaths gradually diminishing, lighter now and calm begins to flood the boys' minds.

But it's not over. Not for Kirit. Peter has his duty to perform for the younger boy lover. Nothing less would be unfair to Kirit. Not after that passionate gift he has presented to his best friend.

Everything comes from Kirit now, his mind and body reactivated, energized, but his duty done. Now it is his turn.

I'm looking down at my own body as I listen for the third time tonight as I lie on my bed. I know I have five more minutes to wait before Kirit tells me through pure sound that Peter has been successful. He has granted my beautiful boy his wishes, in full and perfect harmony and repayment.

One minute now. Just one more minute to wait as I struggle to hold on. I'm on the edge and ready to fall into that pleasure abyss, to fall headlong into that deep and dark place as I watch the consequences flood out. Kirit and me together in perfect harmony. That cathartic moment together.

Those two precious syllables I hear again, this time it's Kirit's hushed and husky voice that utters them. I reply with the same, perfectly inspired and co-ordinated with my little lover boy who is right in every way. My precious boy. And then it's over. Over for all of us. Everything is ended.

I look down at my body before me. I take more deep breaths and look at what I have done. It's all there, all of it. Everything. I look at my hand. My thumb. The flesh of my stomach. My chest. A navel filled. My own breathing slowed to normal now. Life back to normal. The practicalities now relevant and necessary. Things to do. Situations to see to. Normal life to restart but something to reflect upon. Something beautiful to remember; and of course, to relive at my leisure.

Raphael phoned about nine to ask if I had received Kirit's letter. He seemed in an odd mood.

'You sound a little strange Raf. Is everything alright?'

'Fine thanks Mike. Just a little tired tonight.'

'Ok. I got Kirit's birthday greetings yesterday morning. A very nice surprise that was. Did he have any help in its production?'

'Glad you enjoyed it Mike, and not really. Well………a tiny amount of assistance I suppose.'

'From you I sincerely hope? Not anyone else?'

'Correct, just me. It was rather lovely don't you think?'

'Absolutely, and so clever to keep it the right side of the line. But still very effective.'

'Yes. I told the boys what the parameters were and they stuck to that, but it was completely genuine. No faking whatsoever.'

'It certainly came over that way. It was extraordinarily effective, as I said.'

'Job done then. Was it? Did you get the job done?'

'Yes, a couple of times, so far. It's rather moreish.'

'There you go then. It should sustain you nicely in the wilderness up there in Yorkshire until you can get your bottom back here for a while. I hope you will?'

'Yes of course. I was thinking about the Christmas holiday?'

'Perfect. I'll order the turkey today!'

---

Now, from this point onwards, Another agrees to write the remainder of this story because…….a death is announced.

'Are you sure you're alright Raf. You do sound a little down. That's not like you.' Said Michael, concerned.

'I'm fine Mike, really.' Replied Raphael Henry.

'Alright then. If you're sure. I wish I could be with you all tonight. I feel I ought be.'

'You too, darling boy. I miss you. We all do. Look, I think I ought to go now. Sorry to cut everything short. A bit tired. I'd better go. Sorry. Yes, that is the right word Michael.'

It was extensively covered on the local television news channel and it got a mention on the national news too. I heard about it, like most people, but didn't know of the connection between my friend Michael Warrior and this person who worked with the pupils at a private boys' boarding school near Ottery S. Mary in Devon. Michael called me and told me about this person he had got to know quite well by working with him on an ad hoc basis for a short time. Mike was upset, understandably at the news concerning his friend. Apparently this Raphael Henry guy wrote stories. Quite a few of them in fact. Because of the possibly controversial nature of his 'work', the stories could never be published, except with one particular online domain. Also he didn't consider them of any literary merit, or good enough in any other way to get them onto the printed page. He correctly thought that main stream publishing houses would not consider such material, as the market for them would be so niche, only appealing to a small minority of what some people would consider suspect individuals who enjoyed descriptions of those kind of places, people and events that conjure up the kind of imagery that stimulates their particular interests. Men amongst a plethora of young, mostly very prepubescent boys frolicking around the place in just their undies, or not even that. Much of what Henry writes about concerns the deeper aspects of relationship between boys. Those kinds that are seldom mentioned. I personally believe, from my own experience, that such divine individuals are capable of profound feelings for one another, including those of a highly sexual nature. By the age of twelve I certainly was. Why shouldn't we write about the most intimate feelings we have experienced? Or would like to.

Michael asked me if I had heard about the tragedy. I told him I had seen the news a couple of days ago but had not linked the event with him. Then Mike told me more about Raphael and his literary bent, if I may put it that way. The idea had struck him; that he might ask me if I would be prepared to complete Raphael's latest and unfinished story called 'In the Heat of the Night', truncated by his sudden and completely unnecessary death by drowning. Mike was getting tearfully hysterical on the phone……

'Why did the silly bugger have to do that ? The crazy fucker. He just went and killed himself didn't he? That's what he's fucking done, the selfish……. bastard . Why did he have to do that? Because he fucking loved them. That's why he did it. The stupid fucker. Now he's left us. Now he's left me . Left us with nothing and with all this to do. I hate him for doing this to us. And what about Kirit? What's going to happen to him now? What the fuck will he do?'

Kirit? I wondered who he might be. Another man? A boy?

Kirit turns out to be one of the boys at this place that sounded to me like a liberal hell-hole called Frendon.

It's Mike's reaction to loss, making him full of anger and deep, deep sorrow, poor boy. I'm quite sure there is more to all this. More to their friendship than he's telling me. Anyway I'm going to try to help him. I haven't seen Michael for a couple of years now, but once we were close. Very close. He sent me a selection of Henry's stories which I'm finding quite engaging.

I'm currently reading for an English degree, and in my final year. It was a hard course to get on to, what with the legacy of F R Leavis and all that, which was always going to make getting on the course very competitive. I knew Michael as a boy at school and found him, shall we say, alluring. He was a beautiful boy in every way so I decided to make friends with him. I invited him round to my house on numerous occasions and he seemed to relish his visits despite me being two years older than him. Neither his people nor mine thought that our age difference a problem. Quite the opposite actually as my parents thought it a kind gesture on my part to befriend the boy, and his people thought it advantageous for Michael to know an older boy whom they considered a good influence. I suppose my role was really as mentor to this bright and sensitive child. For me, Michael was this boy's dream come true. I simply found him very attractive on a number of levels. Tucked away upstairs in my bedroom, and after a brief chat about girls, we both realised that neither of us thought them of any interest at all. So that issue was now off our agenda, Then we talked about other boys we liked in the school, and very importantly, why we liked them. We were sitting side by side, about two feet apart on the edge of my bed, hands firmly secure under our bottoms. Our own bottoms.

'Do you think Timmy's good looking?' Asks Michael.

'Oh yes. Terribly good looking.' I reply.

'So do I. You're not bad either. Not bad at all.' He says, smiling at me.

'Neither are you. You've got a nice face.'

'Oh thanks. How long have you thought that?'

'Since I saw you in the dinner queue.'

'Do you mind me being younger than you?'

'No. I like that. I can probably teach you a few things that you don't know much about.'

'Oh great. There are some things I'd like to know about actually. Sort of private things. My mum has tried to explain all that stuff to me but she's not very good at it. She says I'm ready to be told the facts. She said I ought to know about it all. That's what she calls it. The facts . Do you know about all that stuff?'

It was clear to me that Mike was asking me to talk to him about sex, a response I was hoping for. You ask the right questions and then you get the right answers. I was once told by an older boy I had got friendly with that if you get a conversation going about sex with a boy you fancy, he will want to do it with you. I was happy to do that, very happy as it happened, because I had a good idea that such a discussion might easily lead to bigger and better things for both of us. My excitement was mounting. So I started with the parts of a boy's body normally hidden from view, and how they differed in size and shape. He told me he was uncircumcised and I told him I was not. Even though I had no choice in the matter, I had been 'done'. Anyway, things between Michael and I were moving forward at break-neck speed, both of us anticipating a very jolly time together whilst he familiarised himself with what boys like to do with each other when left alone to enjoy it. Michael had that look on his face; and one hand in his pocket. I could see it moving. He saw me glancing in that direction and stopped his idle fiddling inside his trouser pocket, and quickly withdrew his hand. He had got himself going nicely.

'Does your penis get bigger, sometimes?' He asked, presumably because his just had.

'Yes it does. Quite often when you don't want it to. Does yours?'

'Umm. Why does it?'

'It happens when you think about interesting stuff.'

'What kind of stuff?'

'Oh, like undressing and looking at yourself. Or feeling yourself. Sometimes I imagine someone I like getting undressed in front of me. Just for fun. That makes me come up like that.'

'A girl?'

'Not always. Sometimes. [Liar. I never do.] Do you ever think about it?'

'Yes. I am now. Because of what we were talking about; I think. '

'So am I.'

I can see that Michael is ready for us both to move forward.

'Shall I? Would you like that? If I did that? Took my shirt and stuff off?'

'I would, very much.' I said, feeling the stirring beginning.

'What shall I start with?'

'You could show me your chest first, if you like. And then the rest of you, but you don't have to.'

'And then you could do it, couldn't you?'

'Yes I could, easily.'

'If I do it, will you?'

I'm almost there now. This is going exactly the way I want it to.

Michael stood in front of me, looking straight into my eyes and slowly undid his tie, pulled his grey jumper over his head, then ditto with his shirt which left his upper half bare. He looked down. There's a bump in his grey school shorts. He looks back at me. He's blushing, seeking reassurance that he's alright . It's a green light for me to take over.

'May I do the rest for you Michael?' Is my big question. Mouth open, he nods his agreement.

We had left our shoes downstairs. Anyway, it didn't matter if we left our socks on. I fiddled successfully with the snake belt and the two clips that held his shorts together, and then lowered the zip down as far as I could get it. They just dropped down to his ankles and Michael is standing before me in just in his underpants. We all wore the same thing, give or take. His were pale blue, quite tight and enormously sexy. His penis thrust forwards through the thin material, as firm as you like. He was obviously proud of it and seemed keen to show me. Just at the point where the tip of his penis touches the material there is a tiny dark moisture spot. He touches it with the tip of his finger.

'Can I?'

'Oh yes. Show me, please.'

With two thumbs Michael levers the waistband sufficiently forwards and then down and left it so it supported the boy's testes which now are forced forward unnaturally, scattered with tiny red veins, to give me a sight of his penis which points skywards, the skin stretched tight over its crowning glory, the meatus [a word now in his vocabulary] just visible, partially open, dark and shining.

'Is it ok?' He asks quietly, again seeking my approval, in a voice suggesting that I might not like it.

'Oh yes. It's……..lovely.'

'Can I see yours now?'

I undressed in front of Michael as he watched the process unfold. When he saw what I could bring to the party, hot and heavy, his slow intake of breath and exhalation was palpable. I think there must be a raw reality to seeing a circumcised penis for the first time like that, and somewhat larger than yours.

The boy puts a hand forwards, finger tips just inches away from touching as I hold the weapon towards the lurking hand.

And then came the inevitable touching. The holding and the gentle squeezing, and pulling, and quiet fondling, legs apart giving room for further exploration. I remember being that size, such soft skin over that essential and underlying hardness. And then the gentle friction which quickly induced our orgasms by our own hands. By our own hands this time, side by side on the bed. The next time was different.

I had an important question to ask Michael. He seemed fascinated by what an older boy can do.

'Have you seen it before Mike?'

'No, not really.'

'What do you mean; not really? Have you or haven't you?'

'No I haven't.'

'Are you disgusted?'

'No! I like it. Is there always……..?'

'About that much. Sometimes more. You can feel it if you want to.'

Michael wanted to, moving his fingers playfully on my warm tummy skin. All in good time Michael.

So that's how I got to know Michael Warrior quite well. Every bit of him. An older friend of mine supplied me with plenty of graphic material to aid us on our way to further exploration and fulfilment. Magazines to begin with, and then emailed video clips of teenagers engaging in this and that, and finally a couple of websites which, amongst all the dross, saw us viewing some hard pornography featuring boys who purported to be eighteen and adults, but to me looked much younger. It became a regular thing for us, to run upstairs to a dormitory and masturbate together, sometimes up to three times in the hour that we had together before yet another mandatory House gathering, a device to make sure no one had gone awol. At the end of all this, my leaving school for university, Michael knew as much as I did about the facts of life. We had watched every sexual act that those porn 'stars' could think of, knew how girls did it on their own or with another girl, and how boys did it with each other in various ways, and how our mothers conceived us. Despite all that new found knowledge, we never strayed beyond the mutual orgasm line. I assume we thought that anal intercourse was not for nice well-brung-up kids like us, so it never entered our heads to explore that far into our personal interiors, or the notion of fellatio, and certainly not the act of sucking in and swallowing another boy's life essence. Good grief no! Never that ! Besides, Michael at that time only produced a single gin-clear bead of what I assumed was pre-ejaculatory fluid. Later, things changed on that score for Michael, much to his celebratory relief, in more ways than one. Thus, I had got to know Michael quite well.

About a year ago, at a school reunion I heard what had happened to Mike. Scandalous news travels like wildfire in schools so there wasn't a boy who didn't know about the downfall of an authority figure. Silly boy. But I could understand what he did to , not with, that sexually immature pretty boy. It could easily have been me, tempted to invade his private space. I remember the boy in question; Simon. Yes I could easily have fallen for him myself, and one or two others. They are right there next to you in a gentle cascade of warm water as you look down at those long smooth legs and those perfect globes where legs meet at the top. And then the boy turns to face you, presenting you with that coy smile as he looks down and carefully inspects himself, prepuce retracted and half inflated. No, it's just not fair . Lead us not into temptation…….please! Unfortunately for Michael, it was all too much one night with the attractive boy in the next bed to his, less than an arm's length away. It would seem that he was not so much led, but fell.

'Will you chase me?' The boy teases, half hiding around the corner.

'What if I catch you?' The older boy replies with a smile.

'Dunno. What will you do if you catch me?'

'Smack you bottom for being a cheeky little git, probably.'

'Will it hurt?' Asks the gobby little git.

'Chances are.'

'You wouldn't do anything else……….would you?' The boy asks, eyebrows raised in expectation.

'You'll find out when I catch you. I'll give you five seconds to escape from…….now!'

The boy makes sure he's caught, very sure, and somewhere out of the way so he's alone and very vulnerable to that threatened smacked bottom he's fully expecting, and wanting, but just a little smack on the bottom, not intended to cause any pain at all. Playing the part, the boy turns away and touches his toes displaying a pair of neat buttocks, the stretched grey fabric revealing those traces of underwear, the curved lines that take the eye from the deep crevice up to the hips. A sort of symbolic gesture of desire on both sides, and intended to lead to sex of some sort; almost always mutual masturbation, and very nice it will be when they finally get there. Michael never got there with Simon, because Simon was always a non-sexual and ashamed of his private parts. Fourteen and a cock the size of a baby's mini-tool, with balls to match, but so, so very pretty. A shame really. Poor old Michael. He could have picked on another boy in his dorm who would have been more than willing. Paolo Magdalino for example. If Michael had stuck his hand into his bed, he would have got a very different reception, and found a cock and a pair of balls at the other end of the scale compared to Simon, and between the three sexual parts, capable of making a sizeable puddle on that lovely warm soft tummy. But the silly boy had to have Simon conveniently placed in the adjoining bed to his. Magdalino. He would have been a very good boy.

The boy stands motionless not quite hidden behind the dormitory curtain in the darkening room, his hands held tight behind his back, and cornered, waiting, breathing hard. Will his pursuer want him; or won't he? The boy hopes he will. Will the boy's pursuer want him ? Oh yes he does want him!

Simon had played that kind of teasy game with Michael, thus sending an unintended message, received and duly mis-interpreted by Michael, loud and clear. And then the fateful night, just after he had that good news about his acceptance onto the Higher Education course he wanted. It was a misjudgement born out of euphoria. A personal disaster, a car crash about to happen that did happen. But you can't turn back the clock. No one can do that. We are stuck with the consequences of our actions.

Church.

With no body to bury or cremate, there is to be only a memorial service at Saint Marys church next month. The date set is Wednesday the fifteenth of October at twelve thirty. Michael has returned to Frendon from his music course having used a death in the family [almost true] as the excuse to abandon the course and return home to steady the ship and care for siblings. He will resume his course at the beginning of the next academic year. The deferment has been agreed. He will carry on where he left off at this Frendon place for the next eleven months to generally help out and try to fill the gap left by the clearly influential Mr Raphael Henry. Having resumed our friendship to a degree, I will attend the service. I shall get to Ottery early that day and have a look around the place. I once played cricket there. It'll be an interesting experience. I doubt if I'll see Michael again after that. I'll have no real reason to. Unless………

Michael said their final conversation was eerily prophetic. Raphael had been talking about being 'tired', and rather 'down'. The piece in the national press went like this………

Michael is in shock. I spoke to him this evening and he is devastated. He told me he's managed to defer his course and is returning to Frendon immediately. I told him not to be hasty about this and to sit down and think. At least delay any such decision for a week, or preferably longer. A month would be more sensible. He told me it was a done deal now. I thought his was a ridiculous decision. What on earth is the magnet drawing him inexorably to Frendon School? Some form of animal magnetism? Boy magnetism? Maybe.

I put this question to him in one of our phone calls. Mike got quite uncomfortable judging by the sound of his voice.

'Look, there's no one there who's special.'

'Are you sure Mike? We are old friends don't forget. We had no secrets.'

'I'm not going to tell all, if that's what you think.'

And then I reminded him that I was in the process of reading Raphael's last story. Obviously I have to do that in order to complete it, in sympathy with his style of writing but also in my own way. There is no other way, and based on the facts I have to hand. Some of the details in the story rather suggest that Mike has more than a passing interest in this boy called Kirit. Let's hope that works out a bit better than his interest in Simon the Unconquered!

'I know what happened Mike. Why you left school in a hurry.'

'Oh shit. Of course you would have to know. How ridiculously stupid of me.'

'So you're going back there for this boy are you? Kirit.'

'No! Well, yes, I suppose I am. And the others.'

'Another one then?'

'Seems like it. I can't help this situation and as I see it, I have no choice. I can't abandon him. I………….'

'You love him. That's it isn't it? You don't have to spell it out Mike. Just don't go in too deep and get yourself into another load of trouble.'

Raphael Henry had given Michael a digital copy of everything he had written to date, including this latest story of his, almost in diary form, of what have become his last thoughts committed to a flash drive, which I now have, or at least a copy of the original. I agreed to write some sort of ending provided I would only be known as Another. Simply that. Another. I didn't like his title so I'm changing it.

I read through the story, which started life as one thing, and then changed to Sons and Lovers, an obvious but I suppose allowable echo of D H Lawrence's tome of the same name. Between us, we have now renamed the tale as Love Conquers All, and it was my idea to use the Latin translation. I thought it sounded interestingly alternative.

I read Lady Chatterley's Lover, and re-read the well-thumbed schoolboy centric bits several times, out loud to a small group of fecund young boys down in the changing room over several afternoons. Although Lawrence wrote it a long time ago, it was still effective as inspirational material to oversexed pubescent boys with their hands playing with themselves inside their pants even after all those years had passed since its publication. I'm sure Lawrence would be amused to know that his tale, or parts of it, still inspired boys to spill their beans onto cold and sterile [and smelly] changing room floors, and just leaving their residues there with no shame whatsoever! Filthy beasts that we were. Of course visual aids for that activity these days are far more sophisticated, in a way, and almost too good to be true, although I still find the written word just as powerful as any image, with the added advantage that it's entirely within the law, at least it is at the moment. Again, with me, suggestion rather than pure description holds me harder to the task. Having now read a couple of Henry's stories, he seems to have thought the same. Anyway, I agreed to finish his last one, as you are reading now, provided I am known simply as……….Another.

I came down to my parents' house in Exeter, my home city and a lovely one at that. Unlike Michael, music was not my thing at all, but story writing has always engaged my thoughts. These final events of Raphael's engaging tale will seem a bit of a mish-mash I suppose, being a blurred mixture of the real and the imagined, but it is an ending of sorts. I'm afraid it will have to do.

Michael has chosen the music to be performed at Raphael's Memorial Service at the parish church of S. Mary at the heart of the large village of Ottery St. Mary. None of it will mean anything to me, but I'm not entirely immune to the effects of the vox humana, especially if nice little boys are providing the high notes. Having been dragged off to occasional services at the grand old church in Exeter, I've heard the sweet cherubs warbling away like soaring larks, and rather liked the sound they made, even to the extent of wanting to get amongst them, for all the right reasons you will understand. I know our school provided some of them.

I parked my Ford Fiesta Ghia, circa 2006, and now nineteen years old but running great, a ten-minute walk from the church on this unusually warm and sunny Wednesday in October. Thus I have an opportunity to look around the large village, or possible it's a town. I googled the place before I set off, something I always do before visiting somewhere I haven't been to, or not for a long time.

I find that Ottery is all about the poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge, burning tar barrels and some naughty pixies who kidnapped the church bell ringers, all synchronized to attract visitors to the place. And the very fine church itself, one of the largest of the twelve thousand five hundred in this fair land, and that's not counting Scotland and Wales, and all those places junior to the forty one English cathedrals. Sorry, I digress.

I'm sitting on a rickety old bench to the side of the lychgate, basically the covered entrance to the churchyard which leads on to a brick path up to the south door and right now it's wide open. I've been in for a look around. I was impressed. It's a stunning space.

There was a pile of service sheets on the table as I went in, the usual funereal thing with a photo of the individual concerned on the front cover and the readings, the music and other bits and pieces within the two-page spread. I liked the choice of photo on the front, the one I knew that Michael had chosen. Have a good look at it. From what I've heard about him, that sultry moody look might sum him up nicely. In this one he looks around sixteen, maybe? Or seventeen? Imagine him four or five years younger lounging on the beach in brief swimming kit. Phew!

Raphael Henry, aged fifteen
Photo courtesy of and © Henry Longing

I don't know what you think, but he must have been devastatingly attractive, but I guess it depends on your taste. There's certainly a knowing 'presence' in those eyes, and that very mobile mouth and lips? Mike told me he has sired two twin boys, and enjoys the best of both domains, 'swinging' both ways. And now his mortal remains rest somewhere on the sea bed. Oh well. I'm not sure what to think. I have no idea who Henry Longing is either!

I looked behind me because I can hear a heavy sounding vehicle pulling up in the road that slopes down from the church towards one of the main streets. It's two coaches, one behind the other. Both doors open and what must be teachers emerge, have a short discussion, and then out come dozens of children, all dressed identically in some sort of uniform and curiously, all paired up now and holding hands. There must be sixty or seventy of them, probably quite a few more than that, all forming up in a long line on the pavement each with his partner, silently waiting for the next instruction. I'm immediately held by this remarkable tableau. They must the boys from Frendon school. The Supervisors [I know Michael refers to them that way] all look young and in their twenties, dressed in smart long beige trousers and dark jackets, white pressed shirts and individual neck ties. I've seen pictures of nineteen sixties schoolboys in South Africa and Australia looking like these boys do, uniforms commensurate with a warm climate. They are all immaculately dressed in grey cotton short trousers and navy jumpers, and when I say short trousers, much shorter than the norm these days when you're lucky to see a boy's knee cap. Shall we say, half way up the thigh? Or in some cases, even further. Goodness me they do look smart; how can I put this into a seemly form of words? Sustenance for the imagination. How's that?

All organised now into twos, the column begins to move, the first pair look around seven or eight years old, the last pair that look the tallest, waiting a while before they can begin to make their way towards me, through the lychgate and up the brick path to the church entrance. I watch them go by. This in itself is a pleasure. There is no conversation as the boys anticipate a solemn occasion. There are very dark headed boys, all the way down the colour scale to one lovely creature blessed with long platinum blond curly locks. I notice that none of the boys appear overweight. Quite the opposite as they walk silently by, not noticing me, and no doubt adhering to a strict behavioural code that befits this occasion. Quite right too. I'm mightily impressed. And that's not all I am noticing. Not one boy walks with his spare hand in a pocket. Maybe they don't get the chance?

As the boys move along the path, each pair leaves a good yard between them, enabling me to see in between the couples, and notice more about them as they pass three or four yards away from where I'm standing. They must enjoy quite rigorous exercise regimes as they all walk very upright and confidently. It's good to know that details like deportment are still regarded in some quarters as important, even with boys. And that question of pockets. I can now see that they have none, at the sides or the back of those natty short trousers they wear. I take another deep breath as I keep my eyes on a couple of the older boys as they pass me, twelve or thirteen, and then slowly exhale, having just taken in the vision of two pairs of buttocks to die for, perfectly outlined by whatever they are wearing underneath. As the long column continues to make its way into the grand old building, there are more sights just like the last one. I need to find out more about the school's uniform policy from Michael. I've never seen any formal get-up to rival this one for sheer elegance and fitness for purpose. The children look confident, proud even, and just…….perfect.

I counted eighty-eight youngsters in all, plus eight of their nicely turned out Supervisors, and one other much older guy in a dark suit. The Headmaster? I left my observation point and stood on the path a few yards behind the last pair I assume are the oldest pupils attending the service. They look like young teens, say thirteen, and hand in hand like all the other boys. That's rather nice. Yes, I like that. Looking down at these two boys, I noticed the two pairs of buttocks, as one might. Their undergarments look identical, judging by the prominent seam lines showing through the material of their short trousers, and cut high enough to be seated at that point where the gluteus maximus muscles make the hardest contact with the enclosing fabric. Clever that, and no doubt designed to give exactly that very splendiferous effect. I see plenty of girls wearing those leggings with their knickers prominent and visible underneath, some of them semi-transparent, showing off their bottoms nicely. I'm glad to see this lot of cherubs clinging on to what boys used to show us before boxer shorts took over from those sexy slips we all wore. I didn't want to, but eventually I had to avert my gaze from what I'm finding a very engaging subject for scrutiny. As yet, there has been no opportunity to scrutinise the front parts. Not yet.

With the column halted, probably until the seating arrangements have been finalised, I can make my way past the boys and into the church itself. Several look at me as I brush past them.

I'm standing just inside the church entrance and to one side and no one is questioning why I'm here. So I can watch matters progress. I'm looking at the first pair at the head of the queue who I can assume are the youngest kids in the school. I'm looking at the short trousers again, but this time from the front. It's the way the garment is cut. That's the key to this one. They are very fitted in the groin area, and although boys of that tender age have limited bulk in that part of their anatomy, what they are wearing is making the very most of the little they do have down there. I'm intrigued, for sure I am, and something else to quiz Michael about. Was this all Raphael's doing?

Finally we are in our places and ready for the off, all the boys together to the left of the central aisle, and the rest of us to the right. I'm right at the end of the third row back, next to the aisle and just four feet from the boys in navy blue jumpers, as they sit pensively waiting. They look quiet, and thoughtful. I'm wondering if they should be here at all, especially the little ones, but I suppose there is death in the midst of life and they might as well know that. I'm also wondering where the four missing boys are until I realise that they will be choir members. One of them is this boy Kirit who seems to be Michael's enduring passion. I asked him last night if he's had sex with him, in some minor way or other, and he said he'd 'fooled around a bit' but no he hadn't. I've no reason to disbelieve him. I wanted a simple description of Kirit so I might recognize him in the choir stalls. I got one. He sounds nice, but also a potential disaster as far as Michael is concerned. Why would he want that kind of burden on his shoulders for who knows how long? We all know how these things can happen. Very easily, and it's called love . Well it's his funeral. Sorry. That was thoughtless of me.

Between Raphael's untimely demise and now, I've had numerous phone conversations with Michael. In one of them he told me that he and Raphael had on one occasion discussed funerals in general and they had asked each other what kind, if any, they would prefer for themselves.

'Oh, he wanted music, and probably in the form of a Matins service seeing as it would probably take place in the morning. No eulogy because people glossed over the nasty bits and exaggerated the better bits. People would be free to remember him as they experienced him, or not at all. He reckoned a few prayers might be contemplative and mindful. No, it was the music, his kind, that he wanted.'

'Did he tell you exactly what music?'

'Yes. We compared notes on that one. He had to have a Britten piece in there, Antiphon probably, and psalm twenty-three in the traditional setting by…….can't remember who. I'll look it up. He'd like a hymn, just one and something to make everybody cry if that enigmatic piece of poetry hadn't done the trick. Oh and that Brahms piece that he loved. Geistliches Lied. He was very keen on tearfulness. He'd talk to the boys about the benefit of shedding tears, something they all want to hide when that mood takes them. He could make the boys cry there and then, just by talking about it. He said that feeling sad was all part of human experience and we should embrace it, just as we should embrace each other, and then smile and get on with it. The boys loved him for his honesty about everything. Lying about things too. They would sit and listen to him for ages, just talking and asking them questions about themselves. It was all because he loved them and they knew it. He used imagery too, like sadness being akin to the sun behind the cloud. And then in due course it would emerge and cast its light on all of us. If a boy was upset at bedtime he would sit with him and hold his hand for as long as it took. It wouldn't matter how long. He would stay with him. He would never compromise when it came to a boy's wellbeing. It was always far more than just his job. We all know what his faults were, if indeed we might regard them as faults, human traits perhaps, but he never let that side of him do any damage. I don't believe he ever did. He couldn't have done despite the very clear opportunities he had. Unlike me. I did. You know about the thing with Simon don't you?'

'Yes. You know I had heard.'

'He never did that to anyone. Not what I did.'

And then there was silence.

Enter the column of choristers in scarlet cassocks and white surplices, all paired off and led forwards by the crucifer, that boy with the dark hair pushed back who could have been the model for Caravaggio's Cupid, and who carries the polished brass cross aloft. I heard the young man next to me whisper his name………Kirit. So this is he, rising in glory, a sure and certain metaphor for Raphael himself, as he lies somewhere, arms held wide, his body cruciform, sightless eyes staring into the deep green waters above, his hair moving softly in the gentle currents, solitary and still, at peace on his bed of sand.

We started with an introduction from the Team Rector that contained a few references to Raphael, thereby slipping in a brief form of eulogy I suppose. The choir, all robed in their scarlet gear under the white surplice, hands held together in front of them, accompanied by an organ prelude by Bach, take their places in the stalls. Then we have a few prayers led by one of the alarmingly young and dare I say it, rather handsome Supervisors. Looking to my left, all the boys remained seated, but leaning forwards, heads down. I suppose these are thoughts one shouldn't have during a funeral, but me being me, I'm having them.

That uniform the boys wear. Under the navy jumper with the pale blue line around the 'V' neck is a pale blue polo shirt and from where I am, not long enough to reliable stay tucked in, ditto the covering jumper, thus, when put under the kind of tension that leaning forward produces, a narrow expanse of bare flesh is left twixt trouser waistband and the bottom of the shirt and jumper. Not only that, but we see the waistband of the boys' underthings exposed to view, some more obvious than others. This charming edgy and undoubtedly engineered little detail I'm sure would not go unnoticed by any interested observer; and certainly not by me.

The prayers were sincere and thoughtful, some clearly written by young minds, mindful of their mentor, all said quietly into a microphone by our pretty young speakers, and with very distinct time lapses in between each childish offering. Indeed the thoughts of the thoughtful and affected, selected for their sincerity and purity of spirit. I found their words, so quietly spoken, irresistibly sad and affecting.

Abide with me? I'm quite certain they will, as fast falls the eventide.

All songs are done now, all things said and are done, as the organ thunders over us all.

There will follow a long, long silence.

With all the boys gone now, departed hence, and all the guests too, Michael and I can stand alone in the churchyard.

'Can you come back with me, or have you got to rush off ? I can make you something to eat? Catch up a bit? A relaxing swim after all this?'

I'm curious about Mike's apparent new life, how it happens and where it all goes on. He's offering to show me and I think I want to know. To immerse my body in warm water might also be the perfect antidote to everything we've been through this morning. The calming effect. Yes, I want to go. I want to see, and hear, perhaps even speak more, just to one boy. I only need one boy, just as Michael only needs one boy. Just one.

By the time we had wandered the churchyard for a while, musing and celebrating what we had just witnessed in the church, and then had a small drink and a sandwich at the Crown pub, we arrived at Frendon with the afternoon classes in session. The atmosphere around the small campus was quiet and orderly. I recognized one boy moving from a mobile classroom on his way to the main and very elegant Georgian brick main building. My eyes follow him as he crosses our path. He shoots me a glance, holding an exercise book. I have an instant thought, smiling at him. He looks away, expressionless, and carries on.

'It's all so quiet Mike.'

'Umm. This morning. It's a reaction to it all. They're sad. They're taught to feel things here. It helps them understand difficult issues and their own feelings. All the consequences of a death. By the way they know you're here. All visitors are announced so the boys know. It's important.'

'So who were you texting just now?'

'Oh, no one in particular.'

'In other words you don't want to tell me?'

He laughed.

'Just a couple of the boys.'

'So you have their numbers?'

'Just two of them. They got their phones back just for today. Are you ready for that swim?'

'Sure. Is the pool free in the afternoons?'

'It is today. Just for us. We can head there now?'

'What about swimming kit?'

'Oh, you don't need anything. Everything's there.'

'Everything?'

'There will be. Everything you could want.'

'Are we on our own?'

'Just us.'

'Who is just us ?'

He didn't answer that question, as we approached the double doors of the indoor pool.

We walked into the changing area with the odd item of clothing left on the hooks fixed to long wooden rails running along opposite walls. It smelled better than most changing rooms I have experienced, but the odour of boys' bodies and chlorine was still noticeable. Perhaps I've imagined the faint smell of a boy's body. Wishful thinking. Mike begins to undress, as do I, glancing at one another as our clothes come off.

'What do we about……….'

'We don't bother. No one does. It's the norm. Everyone gets used to it very quickly. Just don't think about it.'

I was expecting to borrow some swimming trunks. Still, as we are alone, we can relive old times. The communal showering, the baths, the bedtimes, the naked ablutions, and a few of those alternative occasions when the prime target was the other boy's private parts and what we were going to do with them, which was to make sure everything was in good working order. It always was. I think the first occasion with a new friend one always remembers.

Mike has come on. By that I mean he's changed since I last saw him just in his pants. I can see he has, and when they come off I get the confirmation I want.

'You haven't changed a jot.' Says Michael, looking at me, smiling, as he places with both hands his brief white underwear over the trousers on the hook, always the last thing to hang up.

'No, but you have.'

'For the better?' He asks.

'Oh yes, in some ways .'

'So you would prefer me still like that? All tiddly and smooth, and cuddly?'

'You were lovely.'

'Thanks. So were you. I learnt quite a bit from you, if you remember.'

'Those were the days my friend.' I say, mimicking the familiar tune.

'Not quite over, maybe? Shall we take the plunge?'

We weren't in the pool more than two minutes, and just getting acclimatized to that initial chill which soon turns into something a bit more comfortable, and then even enjoyable, when they appear, fully dressed, all three of them. I quickly look to my left at Mike who is giving our unexpected visitors a smile and a wave. I move closer to Mike so we touch bodies, my shoulder against his. I move away, but he closes the gap and we touch again. I like it and I look at him. He's already looking at me. After all the solemnity of the church, this strikes me as a relief, and I am experiencing a kind of euphoria and an unexpected return to something that has passed but was of considerable value. A friendship between boys that's like a piece of gold buried in the earth by time, and then revealed by the plough.

Mike kissed me on the cheek, and the three boys see it because I'm looking at them as I gently move my arms behind me and find Mike's back. He's in my hand again, the feel of his skin, the firmness of his flesh. And now I'm in his, and we are not moving.

The boys are undressing with their backs to us as we watch. They are clearly of different ages, the shortest by two or three inches, has longer dark hair and slightly thicker set, the next is a blondie with a slighter build and from the back, very pretty, and the third is, or rather was, dressed differently in dark blazer, pale blue shirt and tie, and grey trousers, a uniform I recognized, even the House tie, dark blue and decorated with tiny crowns. It's a School House tie, telling me he's a boarder at Exeter. My school. Michael's school. Good grief, who is he with the mid brown hair, a longer and narrower head than the others, a result of puberty no doubt? He's a handsome boy alright with those distinctive green eyes and open mouth.

I can feel Mike's arm keeping me close, as we watch the boys progress towards nudity, I hope and assume, all three with their backs to us and all three in perfectly fitting and identical underpants, except one. I recognize him from the church service, or be totally accurate, the back of his head as he was sitting directly in front of me. At one point he worried me, head down and clearly weeping. I don't blame him. I never heard of Raphael Henry, let alone met him, but those occasions, if you have a modicum of sympathy for those they are leaving, can be emotional. The poor boy was upset. I felt for him. But for boys, a couple of hours is a long time. This is a very different scenario.

It's quite a while since I saw a boy undress. It was Michael, and he knew how to do it. There's a good way, and a less interesting way. Michael always took his clothes off the interesting way. The three boys, in a tight little group, did it nicely, all completed with their backs presented to us. And then, almost in unison, they turned to face us, all smiles. They must have planned it. We are presented with little, slightly larger, and then finally, the Exeter boy, pendulous and much larger with two hanging appendages, one just above the other.

The three boys step forward, their toes curling over the curved lip of the pool as we look up at them, as they look down at us. I ask loudly……

'And who are these apparitions Michael?'

'Oh we aren't ghosts. He's Kirit, and this one is his friend Peter, and I'm Felix. I was here last year but I've left now. Now I'm somewhere else entirely. I'm at Exeter and…….'

'Yes alright Felix! I think we've got the idea now. Are you coming in?' Asks Michael, cutting Felix's monologue short, which was threatening to go on, and on. Something he could do very well. Go on and on .

The boys enter the pool the easy way, their leaps creating a wave that splashed our faces. The youngest boy, Kirit, heads straight for Michael and wraps his arms around him, and his legs, with Michael responding by supporting him in the way a man would hold and support the weight of a young child; underneath. I made room for them, as Peter stands behind the boy, wanting to be involved but can't quite be there. Michael turns the boy around as his body floats forward close to the surface. It's a delightful playfulness which the boy is enjoying, his friend Peter now alongside. It gives me the perfect sight of the boys' naked bodies, watery and shining in the light.

Michael turns to swim away towards the deeper end, which leaves me standing close to Felix. The boy looks at me, mouth open, chin dripping, his brown hair reverted to spikiness, his eyes an arresting greeny colour. I'm not sure what to say. He's not smiling…….

'Will you play with me please. They won't. They want Michael.'

'Oh dear. Yes of course. What would you like to play?'

'Can we play chase, like they are?'

He's not a bad swimmer, and nor am I. And I'm bigger and stronger, so after a polite time had gone by with Felix trying hard to dodge me, he turns towards me, a little breathless, and I caught up with him. We were close to the deep end and I can just about stand up but he can't. It was always going to be a question of how I caught him. He helps me out by letting his hands go limp and slowly disappearing below the surface. Suddenly life is a bit more serious.

Raphael, why did you do it?

Lifting my legs and bending my knees I slowly sank with the boy, and we were like two lifeless bodies, our hair waving like seaweed in the current. And then we tasted the air once more, and laughed.

'You now. I want to chase you .' Says the boy.

I wasn't going to make it easy for him. I want to make him breathless and if he catches me, it will be where I want him to be. Where we were before, in the deep water where he can't stand, under the diving board, in the shadows. I'm excited now. This was the last thing I expected. Oh, lead me into temptation!

He climbs over my back and onto my shoulder, his arms and hands like hooks, hanging on as I continue to swim under the load that is Felix's body. I can feel him on me. He slides off and I felt his pelvic area press hard against me, again. I turn to face him, breathing hard. He hooks on again, pulling, but this time we are face to face.

'Don't let me go, I'll drown.' The boy says, his face under my chin and against my chest. I felt his tongue.

'No you won't. I won't let you do that. Don't worry, I've got you.'

I've got you. Three very significant syllables. I have got you. Felix raises his head and looks at me, eyes slightly pink and very open. I look at him.

'I want to be got.'

We look at each other for a few seconds. Suddenly I can understand the significance of his words.

I smiled and answer those words with……

'Who by?'

'You. I want to be got by you.'

'I have got you; right now.'

He smiles such an impish, naughty smile.

'Can I show you how I can float?' He says, slightly altering course. He doesn't wait for an answer, but turns over onto his back, his hands now on my forearms, gripping them tightly, his head again under my chin.

'Now put your arms out wide.' I said.

'Hold me up then, or I'll sink. Like Raphael did.'

'Where? Where should I support you?'

'Under my middle. Just here. Nowhere else. I need you here . But with both of your hands. I need the way m both here.'

The boy places my hands exactly where he wants them; beneath him in such a way that I can control him perfectly, so if I want to see, I can.

It worked nicely, supporting Felix in that way, as his body floats before me, partly raised above the level of the water. I'm looking at the length of his body, and admiring what I'm seeing. Not quite fourteen now and showing all the right signs of what, not so long from now, will surely be. Boy into youth. And underneath him my sensory perception, gained through both of my hands is sharpened. I know him better now by sight and touch, perhaps just for these few fleeting seconds. Perhaps for far longer. Who knows.

We sat together, Felix and I, on the edge of the pool and at the opposite end to Michael, Kirit and Peter. Kirit, monkey like, was hanging onto Mike, his legs and arms wound around him, Michael's hands under him, his head buried tight into the young man's neck, and Peter looking the spare part.

'Can we go now? I'm supposed to be back at school by now.' Asks Felix. But is that true?

'Yes of course. Get dressed?'

'Umm. Will you come with me? Michael said that you and he went there. You were both at Exeter.'

'That's true, we did. I left a couple of years before he did.'

'Were you friends?'

'Yes. That's why I'm here today.'

'That's why you've met me……isn't it?'

'Yes, that is why. Are you glad you have?'

'Yes. Are you?'

'Yes. But it's been a sad day, in some ways. Is it that way for you, at this moment?'

'Umm. A bit. But I'm happy at the same time.'

'There's always a shoulder to cry on, if you need one.'

'Yours, I hope?'

'Yes, mine. Any time you need to.'

'Can I?'

' May I. Not, can I.'

The naked Felix gives me another of his lovely smiles as I gently tease him, but I can see his eyes, tinged with pink, not just from the chlorinated pool but from his sadness at the loss of a friend. Raphael.

'May I then? I want to.'

With Felix's release of emotional tension over and beautifully done with, me empathetically included, we dressed together, starting with you know what.

'They're nice Felix. Suits your figure very well. Lovely.'

'A souvenir from my Frendon days. I kept a few pairs but I've grown so…….'

'I can see that. Can you manage?'

He smiles for the umpteenth time. We have all run the whole gamut of emotions today, but we are very nicely relaxed together now, me and this charming boy I've met.

'Just about.' He says, managing to get the rest of him tucked into the confined but forgiving material.

'How do I look?' The boy asks, standing up, hands on hips.

'Absolutely terrific Felix. A picture.'

'Do you want one? A picture?'

'Just one?' I joke.

'More, if you want? I could start again. Have you got your phone with you?'

'Let's not go down that road Felix, really.'

'Why not? There's nothing wrong with it. We've done it lots of times.'

'I know there isn't. But………..'

'I'm perfectly normal there; aren't I?'

'Yes you are, of course you are. But.'

'Where is it?'

'You're not having it!'

My jacket is hanging on the coat peg. Felix feels the presence, hard and rectangular, tucked into the inside pocket, and extracts it.

'Does it have a code?'

'No.'

He's standing there, half prominent in his inadequate white pants. I take a deep breath. I know I can always delete it. Probably erase it permanently. He hands me the phone, all ready to record, and then removes what he's just forced his body into, leaving him naked again. I've done it myself, lots of times, and I know plenty of my friends have. I think it's just a fun thing to do. We are all curious about what we look like, seen through a camera lens, seemingly by another pair of eyes. But we were never sharing boys. No, never that.

We sat on the wooden bench, Felix leaning into me, warm and almost……..oh, I don't know what. Almost something . I played the four minutes of video back as we sat together. I can hear and feel his breathing through an open mouth, now fully dressed in his Exeter uniform that is so familiar to me. His crown adorned tie neatly tied.

So now I have two things to remind me of this day.

'Did you get it? The trunch? In the pool' The boy quietly asks, still staring at the moving images.

'Err…………the trunch?'

'Yes. I did.' The boy says, briefly adjusting himself, and as I look at him, amidships, I can see the boy's predicament.

'Oh. That's nice for you. You're not going to now……….are you?'

'No, but I could?'

'That you'll have to leave for later Felix. In the comfort of your warm bed I'm afraid.'

'That's not fair. I always got my own way at Frendon.'

'Well not with me. Are you ready to be re-integrated at Exeter?'

'No. They're not expecting me back yet. Not until…….I'm back. Can we go somewhere?'

'Like……where?'

'I dunno. The seaside maybe?'

'Where? Sidmouth? That's the nearest place, I think.'

'Perfect. Some sea air after all this angst. A nice helping of ice cream would go down nicely with me.'

'Or just cream?'

'Is that a word from Frendon School's private dictionary by any chance?'

'It might be.'

'Schools should be educating their boys in the finer things of life Felix.'

'They do. And did. I was very receptive to everything I was taught.'

'Receptive? That's a good word. And not just a receiver? Maybe a giver as well? It's better to give than receive I was always told. That teaches us not to be selfish.'

'I was a giver! Way more than I received. I was very generous with my gifts as it happens. It doesn't happen anymore. Not at boring Exeter. It's a bit hard going these days.'

'Or not hard going. Poor you.'

He laughed. My guess is that he gave as good as he got, and plenty of it. Oh my goodness, he's persistent, crafty, and extraordinarily tempting. Good old Felix. He's a very likeable young man. There's a good photo of him on his phone that Kirit took of him in the summer. Felix was kind enough to share it with me, so I'm sharing it with you here.

Felix
photo courtesy of Kirit. August 18^th 2025
@copy; Henry Longing

When I looked at my new friend more closely, I hadn't previously noticed the freckles; and those captivating greenish brown eyes. For some weird reason I thought they were blue. I've now seen a good deal more of him than just his face, and believe me, it's worth a second look. I'm quite certain that he gave his Considerate Partner, Peter, everything he could have wished for, and a bit more besides that his younger pretty friend didn't bargain for, the lucky little whippet. And now, notwithstanding this morning's very sobering event, he's coming on to me! I'm twenty-one and he's almost fourteen. Ooh, that's not doable; is it? It's all in that impish playful face of his, and elsewhere of course. The more I hear of the riches that school imparts to their fortunate boys, the more I wish I had gone there. Paradise in Ottery. Just look at that expression. Promises, promises!

'Your car's pretty rubbish.' The boys chips in, sitting next to me in the front seat as we wend our way down another Devon lane towards our destination, the lovely small seaside town of Sidmouth. Just a short walk along the promenade is Jacob's Ladder, where you can walk at low tide right out along the wet sand through the rock pools to the water's edge. At five in the afternoon in October, the beach is deserted.

'We often came here with Mr Raphael. We would swim and play together. We all loved it.' Peter tells me, looking wistfully out to sea. He goes on……

' He's out there somewhere. Do you think he knows we're here?'

'Probably, from what I've heard of his capabilities.'

'Can I hold your hand please. I'm feeling a bit………'

'Of course.'

I took it. It was warm in mine. I thought his reaction sweet and very touching. I need to be careful here because I'm warming to him, and more than I should be. I'm dressed quite formally and so is he in his school uniform, the one I wore for eight years. We must look a little odd standing here watching and listening to the little waves lapping just a few feet away, as fast falls the eventide. That song is an earworm. Death, where is thy sting? Oh watery grave thy victory? Right here. And out there.

The lights of the town are just beginning to twinkle. I squeeze his hand and he responds, looking down.

'Look at me Felix.' I demand, quietly.

He looks up and I can see he's upset, not for the first time today. So I draw him into me, quite hard, my arms around his back, feeling the smooth texture of a school blazer on a boy's back, like he belongs to me. Like a parent would be with his child. I never had a sensation like this before. Good grief, what on earth is going on in my head? I should let him go but I can't. I go on holding him for far longer than I should, pressed together, arousal in the cool air, hands moving. Inside jackets now. Hands against backs, and lower.

There it is again. I really don't want to let him go. Amidst the grief, there is love. That bud can open so fast, and come into full flowering almost in an instant.

'Why did you do that?' The boy asks with half a smile.

'Goodness knows Peter.'

'I liked it.'

'Oh good. I do mean well. Usually.'

'I know you do. You were friends with Michael weren't you?'

'Yes, we were good friends for quite a long time.'

'Did you play together?'

'Yes, when we could. When we got the chance we took it.'

'Was it nice? Together with him?'

'Yes it was. I was very fond of him.'

'Did you love him?'

'Yes, in that boyish way that we do love people.'

'Did you kiss together?'

'Yes, we did lots of that.'

'Anything else?'

'Yes, we did that as well.'

'How often?'

'As I said, whenever we could.'

'He likes Kirit doesn't he?'

'He does. Michael cares about him. And what will happen to him.'

'I know. Kirit loves him.'

'Umm.'

'Do you love anybody, apart from your people?'

'No. I haven't got anyone. Maybe I will have one day.'

'You don't have to love someone to do sex with them do you?'

Do sex? I suppose that sums up how a boy might think of sex as something just to be done, not had, for better reasons. I suppose when we were kids and had recently experienced our first sexual climax, we just wanted more of them, and if we could share with someone else, then so much the better.

'No you don't have to love someone before that happens, but it probably helps if you do. That would be the icing on the cake.'

'The cream in the bun?' Felix says, smiling up at me.

'If you put it that way, yes.' I said back, giving his hand another press.

'You've been kind to me today. Thanks. May I kiss you? Just on your cheek?'

He didn't wait for an answer. It felt remarkably good. A poor word to describe the sensation. It was a lot of things more than just good .

Sealed with a loving kiss. SWALK. I sent Michael a Valentine card once, with that printed in capitals on the back of the red envelope. The previous afternoon we'd had a very successful play together. He was a lovely little boy, like this one.

'Did it hurt?'

'Did what hurt?' I ask, momentarily thinking back to Michael. I didn't hurt him. I never hurt him. It was easy. He was so wonderfully compliant as he presented himself to me, like an obedient girl giving herself, himself , to me. While I had him, he was mine. All mine.

'My kiss. Did it sting ?'

'No! You were very gentle.'

'Like you. You'd be gentle with me. Wouldn't you?'

'Yes I would be. Very gentle.'

We wandered for a few yards. With the hand I'm not holding, Felix points into the distance. I'm looking at the sea.

'What's that man doing?'

'What man?' I ask, turning back towards Felix.

'That one, over there?' He says, pointing again.

It gave me another chance to study the boy's face. He looks puzzled. I didn't see the man he's seen, or thought he'd seen.

'Did you see him?' Felix asks, looking up, his brow furrowed.

'No. Where was he?'

'Over there.' He says pointing westwards towards the reddish Devon cliffs.

'Oh well. Just one of those funny things sweetheart.'

What did I just say? I felt my face warm as the word slipped out. I once called a teacher, unthinking, daddy, by accident. He was a warm-hearted older man whom I liked and I do believe he loved us horrible boys. I've never forgotten that moment when he looked back at me and half smiled, and turned away. I think that tiny little slip of mine might have pleased him.

What with the failing light, the increasing chill, my little slip of the tongue, and the other thing………….

'Look, I do think we should be going now Felix. They'll be wondering where you are.'

'Ok, but can we sit in your car for a while; it's still early?'

It's not early.

We walk up the Ladder, quite hard work being three flights of steep white painted wooden steps, which takes us up to the Connaught Gardens, according to the signage. Michael and I had taken the bus to Sidmouth one holiday and sat there. Since then he had taken Kirit there. The café, aptly called the Clock Tower Café, was open so I offer to buy the boy an ice cream, which goes down rather well, as we sit on one of the benches sheltered by a high wall to the north. We have a view of the ever-darkening sea to the south. I had left him for around five minutes. He seemed fine and made short work of the ice filled wafer cone.

'I saw him again. The man.'

'Oh? Where did you see him, this time?'

'Down on the beach. He was looking up towards me. He waved.'

'Oh goodness me. How long was he there?'

'Just for a second or two.'

'Did you keep watching him?'

'I'm not sure. I felt that I shouldn't look. I must have looked away and then when I looked back, he'd gone. I'm sure he waved at me.'

'Did this……….frighten you; at all?'

'No. It was a bit weird. It just seemed normal. To see him. As if he was familiar.'

'So, how was he dressed, this man?'

'In a coat, a long coat, quite dark, as if he was out for a walk in the rain or something. It was the same man I saw earlier. It was as if he knew me. It didn't frighten me. Not at all.'

'Did you wave back?'

'I wanted to, but I didn't. Not really. I couldn't. Can I sit close to you?'

I thought he looked unsettled so I put both my arms around him and held the taught body tight to me, my chin over his head, and hard into me. I drew several deep breaths as I contemplated Felix's vision of this mysterious figure down there on the beach. A penetrating chill drilled through me, right to my core. I thought of Michael and his attempt to explain his feelings for Kirit and how he felt it was his duty to protect his boy. His words. My boy. I've just had a feeling exactly like that. A strong emotional reaction I suppose it was, or is . It's here now, with Felix, pressing tight into me, and me into him. I'm loving this. The smell of a new blazer, one that I knew so well. The aroma of fresh wool, warmed by a boy's body. The perfume that's here, on him. From him. It's a crazy mixture of feelings I have now. What a day this has been.

I parked the Fiesta on Peak Hill Road that rises up the hill from the town up to the west, a short walk from the entrance to the Gardens, Felix in the passenger seat. He seems fine but still resisting a return to school. The car was cool so I started the engine and turned up the heater. Gradually the heat came through and warmed us both. We're in a good place here. I thought about that kiss he gave me. I thought about him in the pool earlier. I thought about the things he's said and done today. I'm feeling warm and grateful for his company. I'm feeling more things than that. I turn to look at him and he looks back at me. Oh those eyes. That mouth.

'They were good moments in the garden. Thank you.' I say, noticing those eyes a-twinkling.

'It was nice, so thank you for being with me. I like being with you.' He says back, enhancing that glow that's filling me.

'I took Michael there years ago now. We came here on the bus one afternoon in the holidays. We sat right over there.'

'On that bench?'

'Umm. That very one. Our parents had told us that we couldn't see each other anymore. We were both sad about that.'

'Did he cry?'

'Yes. We both did.'

'I feel like that now.'

'Do you? Why?'

'The things you say. They make me happy and sad at the same time.'

'Cry if it will make you feel better. You can have this. keep it if you want.'

He took it, and used it, folded it neatly and left it between us. He picks it up again and holds it tightly.

I was advised never to go to a funeral or memorial service without a handkerchief, so I have one, which I passed over to him, barely used. He takes it and wipes his eyes briefly. I don't think he's shed a tear.

'Can I sit in the back now?' He pleads, holding the scrunched-up hanky.

'Why?'

'It's more comfortable. I can lie down a bit, if I bend my legs. Can I show you?'

My phone peeped. It's a text message from Michael. Prompted by that, Felix reaches into the inside pocket of his emblazoned blazer, the four daggers on the badge pointing menacingly inwards. As I read Mike's text he's starting his device.

'Hi. How's it going with Felix?'

'Ok thanks. We're parked up near the Connaught Gardens. Do you remember that bench we sat on?'

'Oh yes. Gosh, that was a bit of a day. Can I phone you or are doing something?'

'Avoiding doing anything.'

'So far?'

'Yes phone.'

I waited for the ring tone to start. Felix is now embroiled, his face lit by the light of technology, engaged with the boy's best friend. His phone. Mine rings.

'Hi Mike. In Sidmouth then? You realise that's where I first encountered Felix don't you? Lots of things happen in Sidmouth.'

'Yes they seem to. How is Kirit? Is he with you now?'

'Yes. He went back to normal lessons this afternoon but he's a bit floppy. He's taken it all rather hard. He lying on Raphael's bed.'

'On it; or in it?'

' On it! I'm using Raphael's rooms for the time being. I might as well as he has no further use for these bloody nice facilities. I'm going through everything and I'm chucking out what……….well you know, the things he won't be needing now.'

'Things?'

'Yes. Things he wouldn't want people to……….'

'Ok, I get it. No need to elaborate.'

'And Felix?'

'He's next to me in the passenger seat looking at his phone rather intently.'

'Typing texts?'

'No, just looking.'

'Can you see?'

'No. He's got it turned away from me.'

'Ok. Maybe yes or no answers for a bit then. I know he has loads of Kirit stuff on it, from the week they spent on holiday together in the summer.'

'Really? Shall I ask him about that?'

'It might lead you astray old boy. Anyway, I'll let you get on. I'll phone again later. I'm assuming you're dropping him back at school and not…….?'

'Yes, but he doesn't want to get back too soon. We're just wasting a bit of time here.'

'Oh, I don't think time spent with Felix should be wasted. If you can't think of something interesting to do, ask him for some ideas.'

'Oh do shut up Michael! Hear from you later.'

I put my phone on the dashboard and turned towards Felix who shoots me a smiley and knowing glance. He's up to something. I can see he's playing some video or other and wants me see it. He pushed the seat back as far as it will go and he's sitting right back in it, knees raised and wide apart, but still looks the immaculate schoolboy that he is, tie done up properly, and so on. Very smart.

'What's that you're looking at Felix?'

'Kirit, in the summer.'

'That week he spent with you?'

'Yes, in Southwold. We always have a week there. Bit cold though.'

'May I see?'

'You can't see properly over there. Can we both get in the back?'

Ah, so he's given me a tricky decision to make.

I'm jammed into one corner of the back seat with Felix next to me, turned slightly sideways and leaning back against me. He has more room than I do, with his legs comfortably arranged, and his right knee raised with a foot against the opposite door. I have one hand on his right side against the back of the seat, the left doing nothing in particular. I had the evil thought that should his need arise, I am perfectly placed to oblige Felix with his legs a little apart and that area that matters so much to boys is looking very available, not that I'm looking. Not really. Meanwhile there's a show going on.

'I took these photos of him. They're all on Southwold beach near the pier, except the last few which are up towards Walberswick. Do you like them?'

He flicks through a number of images.

'I do. They're very good ones. He's a nice-looking boy don't you think?' A question he didn't answer.

'These next ones are of us both. My mum took them.'

Ooh, one or two might be getting a bit close to the red line.

'Are you in swimming trunks or……….'

'Pants. They were wet so we changed into dry stuff.'

'What had you been doing Felix?'

'Nothing much. We were lying in the sand together.'

'With mum watching you?'

'No, she was reading. I asked her to take a few photos of us.'

'That was a bit naughty. It's rather obvious.'

'I know. I wanted the two of us together. The next one is a video. Do you want to see it?'

'Not too rude is it?'

'A bit. It's of Kirit. He's doing something.'

'What?'

'Do you want to see?'

'No Felix. Look, I need a pee. Sorry you're going to have to move.'

It's not the easiest thing, to get out of a small three door hatchback car, but when I begin the five-minute walk back to the Connaught Gardens to find the public lavatory I noticed earlier, and inspired by very recent events, I've decided to treat myself to an amusing little fantasy…………

Felix played it, right to the end, about four minute's worth. Kirit getting ready for bed. It's charming in its verite and pure and simple sincerity. It involves the model boy undressing down to his nakedness as he looks, expressionless, into the camera. It walks the red line. The next one almost crosses it. Felix chronicles his friend in their bed, and being woken up, the covers gently removed and the naked boy revealed mid reverie. He's perfectly beautiful in all his boyish naivete.

Felix has placed his right hand in his lap. He can feel what has happened when a thirteen-year-old's mind connects with his body, stimulated by such compelling imagery as this surely is. A new video has started. Kirit's head on a pillow, just in profile.

'Can you hold the phone please?'

I take it from him as he undoes the two clips that hold his trousers together.

'Do you mind? I need to.'

'No, if you must.' I say, reaching for what he had discarded earlier.

'Here. I have to go for a pee. I won't be long. Say ten minutes?'

I shouldn't look at any more so I turn my head away and look at the sea. Felix has turned the sound louder. I can't move. Not now. Not until he's finished. I have to stay and be with him. I want to be here at the end, just as he finishes. To see. To see it.

Felix has his right hand inside his neat white pants. Looking over his shoulder, as I am now, he shows me, gloriously revealed. I'm breathless. And then he begins…..

The sound level is rising from both boys and I'm sure my own breathing is audible to Felix. Then he says……..

'Don't go. Help me………please.'

'How Felix?'

'Feel me.'

'Just that?'

'Yes, just feel me……..here.' He grabs my hand. He places it between his legs, outside his pants and around the testes, both of them. I can feel them perfectly as I slowly explore the sensitive forms within my fingers. Felix emits another extended gasp of pleasure. I'm hitting the spot just as the sounds coming from the boy's phone are getting right through to every sensory receptors we have.

With his head back now, Felix is in my lap, the sounds louder now and coming with a heightened urgency. By the sounds the boy is making, Kirit is about to experience his sexual climax, and so is Felix, but I'm concerned for the boy's immaculate clothing. I have no idea what Felix is capable of but I know what I could do by that age, as Michael will testify. From what I have seen and felt, I have little doubt that Felix will be no different. I need to be quick.

It's on his thigh, bare now with his trousers below his knees. What a lovely sight this boy makes as he sits over and against me, and not still. I reach forward to find the foot square of white cotton I offered Felix earlier, retrieve it and place it carefully over the boy's navy-blue school jumper in the hopes it will offer complete protection from the emission of his sins, if I may put it that way. Whether this last ploy will work remains to be seen.

We hear the last few breathy sounds from Kirit which tells Felix it is his time too. There are just seconds between them.

Felix takes a deep breath; and exhales loudly with sighs of profound satisfaction. There's nothing from the phone now. It's all over for the boys; and all over everything here. Such inadequate precautions. Boys can be so very messy creatures.

I always keep a packet of wet wipes in the car for sticky fingers, and similar emergencies. As for the square of white cotton………..well, I'm not donating that to Felix's cause. That's definitely mine to have and to hold, as that delightful faint perfume lingers on in my nostrils.

Felix has got himself back in the front passenger seat. He's looking pretty relaxed, leaning back, his face lit by a boy's best friend these days, his mobile phone. I'm in the driving seat, in one sense, but with Felix you get the feeling that he always is.

'Alright?' I ask.

'Yes thanks. Meet anyone interesting down there in the loo?'

'No. The place is pretty much deserted now. It's got a bit chilly.'

'It's nice and warm in here, and the back seat was comfortable…….enough.' He says, smiling with that Felix look, and finally looking somewhere else other than the bright screen.

'Comfortable enough for what Felix?'

'Nothing much.'

'Nothing much of what?' I ask with raised eyebrows, and thinking dark thoughts.

'Use your imagination. What a boy has to do when a boy just has to do it. Did you see anyone? Anything?'

'No.' I lied. I did see something that has convinced me that Felix is not delusional. I saw it too, just for a few fleeting moments. Walking up the beach towards me. Just some random person, just like the one Felix described. A dark figure etched against the light, someone who appeared, and to know me, and disappeared. But I never met him. How could he know me?

'So how did you get on while I away.'

'Good…….thanks. Did you say you had some wet wipes?'

Felix turns towards me and I can immediately see the problem.'

'You are one messy pup. Have you no control?' I joked.

He looked guilty, as well he might, but he's right, practicalities go out of the window at such critical moments. There are several problems which I can deal with quite easily. The rest of his problem is mercifully contained in the crumpled article which he's holding, full of the chill of regret. How quickly it cools, desire satisfied.

'I don't suppose you want this back now?'

'Yes I do! I've only got a couple of them left. I save them for special events. Like weddings and funerals in case of dire need. Or other circumstances.'

Circumstances . I like that. The boy looks at me in that questioning way.

'May I write to you? Let you know how I'm getting on? Would you mind?'

'Not at all. I've enjoyed your company Felix. And I'm sorry about Raphael. I really am.' I said, jotting down my York address on a scrap of paper. And after a moment's further thought, my Exeter home address. I'd like to keep in touch, if he does.

'Thanks. I'm not sure how to take all this yet.'

'No. It'll take time. Are you ready to go back to Exeter now? I think we're all done here now.'

'Umm. I suppose so. Everything done and dusted.'

'It never is Felix. There's always another chapter.

'That's quite an exciting thought isn't it? Always another chapter in the story. You're doing English at university aren't you?'

' Reading , yes. At York. Not doing . We live with a ghost up there. My tutor was taught by him and he hasn't recovered yet.'

'Do you write?'

'I have to write quite a lot Felix, in the course of any one day, but typed words. I don't think many of us can actually write properly. We just type on a screen.'

'Oh, so you do believe in ghosts…….do you?'

A cold chill went through me. For the second time.

'Why did you ask me that Felix?'

'Because I want to? I want to believe.'

Felix looks away from me, through the car window and over the sloping grassy bank and down over the beach and into the cold grey sea beyond.

'Look at that .' Felix whispers, visibly moved by the unearthly event unfolding before us.

A moon is rising, slowly appearing like a vast silver presence, a new ghost given birth, rising in glory, majestic, and reborn.

---

I delivered Felix back to his school we always called simply, Exeter. Watching Felix walk away from me, still looking the immaculate figure that he is, despite all his comings and goings, I thought of Michael coming towards me in the opposite direction, head lowered and in disgrace, towards Matron's ancient Austin that will take him to the station, and thence, home. Poor boy. A simple error of judgement made in the heat of the nig ht, enlarged into a heinous crime only a part of which he actually was responsible for, if Michael is to be believed, and undeserving of being haunted throughout his life by such a ghost as he surely will be. Still, that's how life can go for us. There is an up-side, fortunately, because without that experience he wouldn't have discovered Frendon Manor School and all the delights therein. He's back there now for a year he tells me, against my advice and maybe for much longer, who knows, to continue his mission to save his passion and young love, Kirit. To nurture him, and little doubt, to make love with him in due course. I now know more about Kirit than I ought to be knowing. And Felix too, all because of the unfortunate demise of their lord and master, and mentor, Raphael Henry.

And so shall this tale quietly come to its end, the last scenes played out now, but it can't and won't be the end for them, and perhaps not even for Raphael, lying still in his watery grave, his eyes now sightless pits, sans hair, sans everything, his face worn away to ivory skull by the soft and gentle currents, but where his mouth and tongue once were, slowly moving, those faint words we might still hear………

Miss me, but let me go.

Just before Felix left me, he turns back, and through the open car door he asks………

' Do you believe in ghosts?'

I'm thinking, my head down for a few moments, and then I look into that sweet boy's face…….

'I'd like to.'

Amen.

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