The Persistence of Memory

by Rafael Henry

Chapter 17

Duncan put the large rucksack, provided by the school, down by the kitchen door, with an appropriate sigh of relief.

'Goodness you look tired. Tough tour was it?' I asked with Garth listening in while he unloaded the washing machine in readiness for the returning Duncan to fill again. A quantity of school clothing fell out amongst some of mine and Garth's kit, the whites, which meant vests, tee shirts and hankies. And other sundry items of various shapes and sizes.

'You might say that. Did thirty miles hiking in all, according to Quintus.'

'Crikey. How many of you?'

'Six of us, including Mr Beer.'

'Who dropped you back here?' Asks Garth.

'He did.'

'He was outside a while. Why's that?' I chipped in.

'Oh, he wanted the camera I was using, but it was buried underneath everything else so he's got to wait until tomorrow. I mustn't forget it in the morning. He'll kill me if I don't return it tomorrow. School property.'

It was a hike across Bodmin Moor, sleeping under canvas. Rather them than me. We had a storm the second of the four nights Duncan was away. They would have had that too, exposed to the elements high up on the moors. After Garth had emptied the rucksack, a pile of damp clothing plus a filthy towel, a toothbrush and one or two other essentials, a very compact Nikon digital camera appeared. Quintus had persuaded Angus, our Head Man, to splash out on quality stock for Quintus's new Digital Arts department, a new direction I was involved in as the IT dogsbody in the place, involved with as far as Quintus wanted me to be and no more. At least that's what he thought. Keep Alex at bay. No chance mate. There's plenty he doesn't know about my capabilities in the digital world I inhabit. For a start I've hacked his email accounts. Yes, accounts in the plural. He has three so far. The Head Man, Dr Angus Simpson, also has three, all set up by Quintus, his right-hand man these days, who has assumed the new title of Wider Curriculum Co-ordinator. I can log into all six accounts whenever I want to, naughty me. And boy, isn't it interesting. Thus I have assumed the power not only to blow the pair of them sky high, but also to protect them, should I need or want to. The moral of this story? Never ever trust the IT expert you've put your trust in.

As soon as I heard about this hiking adventure a month ago, I suspected a plot.

Three boys plus Quintus, in two tents? So that's two boys in one tent and Quintus sharing a very intimate space with the oldest boy which, presumably would be Duncan. Let's check that important little detail.

'Who were you sharing with Duncan?'

'A first-year kid. Marcus White. Do you know him?'

Answer, yes I do. He's in one of the life drawing groups Hillary runs. She calls it her Rabbits club. The Bears Club is for mainly for the older boys. I say, mainly, but not exclusively. There's a degree of flexibility when it comes to the modelling volunteers. Little boys enjoy drawing the bigger boys and vice versa. One or two of the big boys like being studied by the little boys, just as one particular little boy called Marcus White enjoys the visual attention of one particular bigger boy. Duncan, who at this moment looks tired and untidy.

'Go and shower now please Duncan.' Insists Garth. 'Leave those things here please. I don't want that lot upstairs. I'll have some clean and fresh things for you when you come down.'

Duncan returns fifteen minutes later, his skin pink and fresh, hair wild and wet, smelling of a fragrance somewhat better than the one coming off him as he stripped off to nakedness in the kitchen. I don't often see him nude these days as I don't sleep with him, even now Robbie has returned home to his father's poky little terraced stone house, 2 Tregenna Cottages, Poverty S. Erth.

My eyes drifted down for a good look at Duncan's sex as it hung there, the overhanging prepuce of a young boy's kinderkock now retreated back permanently it seems to expose the darker coloured crowning glory, due of course to the onset of his tricky and long journey through puberty. No, I can't call it a kinderkock any more, being slightly longer and plumper, but his balls are noticeably lower and larger, and judging by the detritus I'm expected to pick up most mornings, two ever more productive sperm factories. He's a mid-teen, almost, and looking like one. He sleeps on his own in my old bed made for two, and does what most boys do most mornings and nights, the bedsprings readily giving up their secrets to me, the listener next door. His alarm clock goes off a half hour before he needs to get out of bed which leaves him plenty of time to sift through mentally stored images, or even digitally stored ones for all I know, for appropriate inspiration. As for me, Duncan and Robbie have been my inspiration for some time now, prompted now by what I hear through the thin partition wall. That's enough for me.

'You've grown Duncan.' I remark kindly.

'Oh? Have I?' He replies with a faint smile. He knows exactly what I'm referring to.

'In certain places Duncan.' I say, just to make sure.

'Maybe. I hadn't really noticed.' He says, running his fingers through his longer than regulation hair. Then Garth appears, clothes over one arm.

'I've fresh kit for you here Duncan. Pants or knickers?' Garth interjects, holding various items from which Duncan can choose.

'Pants please.' He says, leaning down to stroke the cat who has been attracted to his left foot, opening up a rear view of him. Garth turns his attention to the pile of dirty clothing on the floor, picking it all up. He finds one small article he doesn't recognize.

'And whose are these ?' Garth asks in an accusatory way, holding up a very small pair of boy's briefs, a rather pretty pale peach colour. And then another pair, a pastel green.

'Oh, they're Miss's. He left them in the tent on the last morning. I forgot to give them to him.'

'Who is Miss?' I ask.

'Robin Honey. They nicknamed him Miss. You know, after Miss Honey in the Roald Dahl book?'

I laughed at the invention of clever children. They always come up with something, usually something unkind.

'How does he get into these things?' Asks Garth, stretching the waistband sideways until breaking point is almost reached.

'He doesn't. Not often and only when he has to. He doesn't really need pants, not with his weeny peen; and no bumfluff.'

'That's not very kind Duncan. I'm sure he's an absolute…….honey.' Jokes Garth, badly.

'They're new ones Duncan so I'd appreciate you looking after them please.' Garth says, handing the boy the unfolded pristine looking pair of white slimline briefs. In other words, next time you feel the need to produce another boy-sized quantity of pearly liquid, reach for the Kleenex rather than doing it into the nearest thing to hand, so to speak. If possible. There's a reason why Kleenex are placed on bedside tables in every bedroom.

Duncan inspects the new garment, inwardly approves, and stoops to find the first opening for his left leg, almost topples over, then succeeds with both feet, finally pulling them up into place, his now distinctly larger and appreciative penis fitting comfortably and vertically inside the loose-fitting material. He likes them. And so do I. A plain tee shirt follows, and then those old shorts he's never going to throw away. How I do love him.

Garth is hovering over his favourite bit of kit at Morwenna House; the washing machine. He's in charge of all aspects of our general cleanliness and sartorial well-being.

He has the two items belonging to the Honey boy. Have they been worn? Better check in that way he always does. I've seen him do it countless times, like a woman who checks to see if a towel is completely dry now by putting it up to her nose. And the visual check, as he turns the thing inside out. Personal hygiene tends to go out of the window on camping trips, as does efficient bottom wiping.

He reaches for the bottle of pre-wash stain removal as a precaution, decides not to squeeze the trigger a couple of times in the appropriate place, has a quick glance at the label sewn into the back of the waist band, and drops the article to join the other one by his feet. It's the faint perfume that lingers in the cotton material. Modern detergents destroy all that. The honey boy can have his property back as they are now. Or not. Perhaps they ought to be lost in translation, in transit, somehow disappeared. Lost but not gone, and ready to join all the others. Another of Garth's little secrets stored away for posterity.

He sets the machine to sixty degrees on the forty minute cycle and presses the button to start. He hears the water begin to fill the drum, the honey boy's two items of 'lost' property remaining at his feet. Thinking for a few seconds, he picks them up, has another look, folds them neatly and takes them upstairs, his never-spoken-of fetish further satisfied. Just as Sean had said, the actual father of the boy.

'We all have something darling.' He says, giving the young man in his bed another post-coital peck on the cheek. Garth never knew, not quite, why he always insisted on keeping his underpants on, right up to the last moments when his lover was ready to enter him. It was something to do with his own childhood; almost certainly. But the harmless fetish lingered in his mind, and persisted. No, he'd keep the Honey boy's things, but just the one, the pretty peach-coloured ones. He never liked the colour green. They could be returned.

They were important milestones for Garth, given all that responsibility for baby Alex. He enjoyed every moment of it, even the nights of inexplicable crying that seemed never ending. The potty training, and the glorious transition from baby to toddler, and then to the lithe young boy. The listening to his stories in the bath, and then the drying of the firm limbs, the pretty face, the gentle combing of the long fair hair. The beauty of his body. Then came the talks about growing up. Alex always enjoyed their 'little chats' as Garth called them, especially when they talked about what boy's bodies did all the time. What things were for. A boy's penis is not there just for peeing. When Alex finally stepped out of the bath, there it was, all hard to the touch and sticky up just like Garth had said, and not hidden from plain sight like Garth's was.

I didn't want to quiz Duncan about the hiking trip with Quintus and the other boys involved. Not yet. I just wanted to sit with him quietly on the sofa, to feel the warmth of his body against mine, one arm around him as his head gently eased it's way against my shoulders. He's used Garth's expensive shampoo on his hair, still damp, as I try to conjure up an image of the Honey boy.

'So what's he like. Miss Honey?'

'Nice.'

'Is that all? Just nice?'

'Umm, pretty much.'

'Do you actually like him?'

'Yes.' Was the short answer, but in what sense does Duncan like the boy? Best leave that for now.

With Duncan gone to bed, I have retrieved the Nikon digital camera from the school rucksack and plugged it into my machine. I counted about two hundred still images recorded on it showing the landscape of Bodmin Moor, and then the boys. All loaded up with their kit, tramping through the bracken, over rocks, following tricky rocky paths, stopping to look at views, and so on. All the things you would expect to see boys doing on a trek across the wild and beautiful landscape that is the Moor. That's one side of the story. The other side, or rather one other side is the social interaction of the boys as they eat, play games, swim naked in the stream, and lark about in their tents, torches waving this way and that. Typical behaviour. The camera appears to have been attached to the tent pole at the centre of the entrance flap, the tents being of the traditional kind we can all envisage. A ridge tent designed for two bodies. The artificial light is coming from above, presumably the source that hangs from the ridge above the sleeping bags to light the scene. It looked like there was no third party involved, but the equipment set up by the boys themselves, after some instruction as to how to achieve the best effects. It was simple enough, just hang the light in the right place, the recording device somewhere else so the light modelled the scene nicely in the dramatic yet soft lighting. Unedited it all looks a mess, but with some clever editing, something I can do well, what I was seeing could be woven into something quite different.

The two players were the Robin the honey boy and Duncan. The sound was muted but perfectly clear as Robin asks Duncan the question. He was going to find it hard to sleep but there was something Duncan could do to help to relax him. I just hoping Miss Honey gave her full consent. A question which Duncan raised the other day. When a boy, or girl, can give their consent to sex.

'Really? Is that what you want Robin?'

'Yes. Please. It won't take long I promise.'

'Alright then. Just this once.'

Just the two faces are in shot, perfectly focused. Then Duncan's head disappears and we only have to imagine exactly how he slowly brings the boy to his peak. Then Duncan's head appears again as he plants a long kiss on Robin's sweet mouth. I watched the boy's face as Duncan began his pleasant task of pleasing him, his eyes wide open staring sideways directly at the camera, perfectly aware of what is intended here. Quiet at first, he begins to react to heightening sensation, as we all do, with the most delicious sounds that only a boy of that age can make. His breathing comes in short sharp breaths as his orgasm quickly approaches, accompanied by the kind of sounds you would expect to hear, of intense and profound pleasure. Perhaps it's the first time he's had help of this kind? If so, he will want more. Much more. It's the expression of relief as the boy's eyes open wide, mouth open, and he finally comes, throwing his head from side to side, almost unable to bear the pleasure that Duncan has given him. And then the kiss, hard together, the honey boy's hands tight against the sides of Duncan's head. This is true theatre indeed. Excited now, obviously, Duncan isn't finished yet, not by a long chalk as he works his body upwards along the smaller figure, kneeling over Robin as the boy is faced with Duncan's erection just inches away, Duncan's fingers and thumb wrapped around it. The boy looks up, smiling.

'What are you going to do?' The boy asks.

'Would you mind if I did something?'

'No. Will it come out?' He asks, wide eyed and looking like he would want it to.

'Yes. Would you mind that? If it did? I won't be able to stop it once it starts.'

Duncan begins the process, fast. Sensing his victory, the boy raises his head in expectation, his mouth open, both boys breathing loudly and fast. It's one of my greatest pleasures, witnessing at close quarters, a boy ejaculate fully. But not just yet honey boy. A little patience is required in these matters. Two or three minutes pass as the honey boy's head moves from side to side, his tongue flicking away there. Just the sounds would be enough to tip me over the edge, a tantalising mixture of sighs and whimpers and murmurings. And then the raising of the boy's head. Just wait a few more seconds honey boy.

And every last visual and audible moment caught.

'Can I try now?'

They know where the camera is for the next act of the play, as Duncan wriggles himself into the perfect position, the boy poised over him.

The boy has his fist around Duncan as he examines him for a few seconds, gently touching his partner's meatus with his finger tip drawing from it a thin skein of pre-ejaculate about two inches long. Curious, the boy touches the tip with his tongue; and smiles. What a sweet smile as he plays with the clear viscous substance that he's worked up the little tube inside Duncan. He appears to know what he's doing.

A tongue slides up and down the thick shaft. Round and round the tongue goes. It's just a matter of time as I wait, and wait, and wait.

The reality shocks him as he suddenly pulls away, his mouth and lips covered with the translucent liquid that's just emerged at speed.

Well, that wasn't so bad was it?

I remember my 'first' very well. I had no idea what to expect. I had been told, in suitably vague terms what might happen if I did the job right. I had practiced on my friend at the time, but neither of us were currently producing anything more than a 'sticky end' as the boys called the rather attractive gin clear bead that appeared at the tip of our kinderkocks that one could then extrude into a long strand before touching our lips with a fingertip. Nothing very dramatic in that. I've mentioned this lad before, much older than I was, who slept in a room on his own, so my daily assignment to wake him up was a private affair. I had a real boy pash for this very nice individual who I knew admired me. He'd made no secret of the fact, paying me daily compliments whenever we bumped into each other in a corridor or in the Games Room.

'Do you know what Alex?'

'What?'

'I had this dream this morning that you came into my room to wake me up. You were looking lovely as ever, just in your pyjamas, you holding them up at the front because if you weren't, they would fall down and I'd see your pee pee.'

'Oh. And did they fall down?'

'Yes.'

'And you saw it?'

'Yes.' He says, smiling.

'Did you like it?'

'Yes, a lot.'

'What time do you want me to wake you up then?'

'Say, six thirty?'

I set my alarm and duly tip toed along to his room and went in, dressed appropriately, the drawstring of my pyjama bottoms undone with one hand preventing them from falling down to my ankles. Just the thought of this very eligible boy fancying me was enough, by then, to have got my 'pee pee' up close to the vertical held back by a dual purpose right hand. The individual rooms were very small so his head was no more than five feet away as I stood there, about to make his dream come true. His eyes were open as looked at him, waiting. And then I let go. A few more seconds went by and he said…..

'Lovely. So very lovely.'

I looked down, and then back at the boy who had pulled the bedclothes off his lower body so I could see his sex too. Predictably it had grown to a size I had never seen before. There was no foreskin, thus he was a 'roundhead', as opposed to a 'cavalier'. The penis head looked impressive, a large domed helmet looking thing with a pronounced ridge around it, like mine has and my friends was after he had worked the skin back far enough to see it, but us on a somewhat smaller scale compared the six inches of solid gristle he had. The whole thing looked curiously exposed, pink and ready.

I walked up to him as he lay there, his head perfectly positioned. He cupped my balls and enveloped the entire length of my penis in his mouth. All four inches of it. No messing about, this one. Anyway, we both knew by now this is what we both wanted, so why beat about the bush? Aged twelve I had consented. I think that's one of the things boarding school teaches you. Why waste time fucking about? If you both know , then get on with it. It was good chemistry. He'd told me what he needed of a morning, just like so many boys needed each morning if they woke up with enough time before the rising bell.

I disengaged and took him in my mouth getting it as far down the shaft as I could without gagging, about half way, holding the thing still while I travelled its length, my tongue trying its best the stimulate the underside, a place I knew to be the most sensitive and packed with nerve endings. There was quite a decent bush of hair that tickled my nose rather, but that's to be expected, so my friend said. Slightly irritated by the tickling, I now concentrated on the bulbous head part, which judging by the sex noises he was making, he liked and it was all working for him. I think he must have been fiddling well before I got to his room because it was all very quick. I expected to work my magic on him for a good ten minutes or so but I didn't have to wait long before I felt it fill my mouth in several spurts, all warm and weird tasting, like the smell of a swimming pool. Quite hard to describe. My dilemma was whether to swallow the lot or spit it out. To my credit, something I was later complimented on, was my willingness to not detach at the first pulse of his coming, but to carry on attached until I had extracted everything, without swallowing, but holding what felt like a large amount but probably wasn't, in my mouth for as long as I could hold it in there. In the end I deposited the whole lot, which by now contained some saliva too, in the palm of my hand. I looked at my new friend, a friend who suddenly had become a different sort of friend. One of those friends.

'What shall I do with it now?' I asked, as he stared down, the stuff beginning to make inroads between my fingers.

'I don't know. Here. Use these.'

He hands me a pair of his underpants that I noticed were lying on top of his other clothes on the bedside table. I used them. He screwed them up and put them under his pillow, then hesitates a moment……

'Do you come?'

'I think so, yes.'

'Really? What……proper spunk?'

'Oh. I don't think so.'

'You mean you don't know? I can tell you if you want?'

'Ok.' I said brightly.

He knelt between my raised knees and gave the once over just avoiding putting his tongue against my kinderkunt, but only just. I thought how nice that would have felt if he had done so. Then all the way up to my scrotum sucking my little egg-shaped nutty things in the most delightful way , to quote July Andrews, and then onto the places I really wanted him to go, and go he did, bless him. My real joy was in what I had done for him. He was very kind. He said he liked dry boys.

I continued 'waking him up' for another couple of weeks. Then I had a word with him in the corridor one evening. Our dormitory prefect had noticed my early morning illegal wandering and reported me. That was the end of it. You stayed in your own bed until it was time to get up, and not before. Shame. I hated the onset of unsightly hair when it came not that long after, but it did have compensations! Time to grow up a bit, but not too much or too quickly please. Us 'smoothies' were always admired for our innocent natural beauty, just as I admire it now, looking back over my shoulder, when it passes me by.

I recognized him. A dark rather mediterranean looking lad called Philip. There must be some reason why Quintus picked him for this jaunt. I had to wade through some more footage of cooking sausages on a camp fire before I got to the nude bathing in the stream. There was quite a nice few minutes of the boys undressing down to the undies prior to their frolic in the water, mainly paddling and splashing each other, and then a little later, underpants abandoned altogether. And then the tent activities began, and this time, nothing like the performance from Duncan and his mate, but beautiful in a different way. Robbie must have made friends with this chap a while back because their behaviour together was what you might expect from two boys that had strong feelings for each other. A sexual interest in each other was hinted at but not acted through in any way. The nearest we got was the boys play fighting, interesting as it was, with the occasional grope towards the genital area. And then nothing, lights out and darkness.

And then the third tent that by the process of elimination contained Quintus and the fifth boy. There was nothing recorded that I could find. One thing I knew was the boy's name was, or rather is, Martin Glover, a fifth-year student and there as Quintus right hand man and general helper. That would make the boy fifteen or sixteen. I knew Martin from his attendance at a few of the IT classes I ran. A very nice quiet boy I strongly suspected of being gay. I can usually tell. Besides, there was other evidence for my opinion. None of the boys had access to their own machine so he wanted to borrow one of ours. One of about six laptops. I asked him why he wanted it. I got an answer that got me thinking. I lent him one of the better ones, and when it came back the next day, I checked the history of last night's activity.

Just as I thought. Young men engaged in various sexual acts with other men, all rather young men, and dare I say it, very lovely. Young Martin has good taste. Thus I took note, but I shan't say anything to him and of course, to no one else. I hope he enjoyed his various visits. I imagine in the future there will be systems that will prevent such material being searched for by underaged boys, and girls too I suppose, but currently there's nothing to prevent it. In other words, if you know where to look, you'll find what interests you. Boys will look out of normal curiosity.

Martin was in Quintus's tent all night, but knowing Quintus as I do, he wouldn't. He's not that stupid, in fact quite the opposite. He's not going to take a risk with the likes of Martin Glover, even if the desire tempted him, and I don't know if he even has that desire. These boys he's exerting his influence on is just the bait for a fish he'd dearly like to catch.

I haven't had a romantic partner my age for goodness knows how long now. I have a certain aching inside me. I don't think I can wait much longer. I go to sleep thinking about it and I wake up thinking about it. I would like to do a bit more than just think about it, if at all possible. Duncan wants to, I pretty sure about that. But I don't. I can't. It would be wrong, even though other things tell me it would be very very right . Very right at the time, but afterwards? Wrong. And Duncan's been asking about this issue of the age of consent, which has been in the news recently. There's some kind of organization called PIE. I know nothing about it but they have made noises apparently, about lowering the age of consent to sex between males from the current sixteen to four ! Yes, four! That means that my natural son, Sis, in less than two years-time could say to some unknown person that his body may be used for sex. I can't imagine he could use any other body sexually. Changing him one day his tiny penis hardened, yes, but that's about the limit of it. There's no way he could come to a decision like that at that age. He would have no idea what sex was for a start. Am I right? But Duncan says he's different.

'That's ridiculous Alex. Sixteen? I knew all about it aged eleven thank you. If I asked you, you would wouldn't you?'

'Would what?'

'Do it with me. You would, wouldn't you? I'm consenting Alex.'

'Aged fourteen? You're not allowed to, even if you consent Duncan.'

'Well I do, and who says I can't?'

'No one says you can't consent, but they say you can't actually do it.'

'I want to. With you as soon as we can. You know I love you. It's time Alex. You say you love me too. Why can't we?'

'No reason at all, apart from the lawmakers saying we can't, and if they find out we did, then we would both be in a nasty fix.

'So, why would they find out? How?'

'If you told them. I wouldn't, obviously. But afterwards, when you had thought about it, maybe years later, you might tell someone what we had done, because you were unhappy and sad about it. It would be my fault.'

'I would never do that Alex.'

'No, but somehow or other, someone else might know about it.'

'How?'

'I don't know. I'm nearly four years older than you. That's a problem for the law makers. It would be my fault, not yours, as far as I can make out, as things stand.'

'I want to Alex. With you. I'll get you when you're asleep. You'll be having a nice dream and I'll be on top of you. It'll just slip in and you'll do the rest of it.'

'That sounds rather nice. Like a wet dream but real. Lovely.'

'There you are then. You can't be responsible if you're asleep can you?'

'An interesting point you make Duncan. Maybe there's a precedent in legal history?'

'When then? Now. Can we do it now. You can pretend to be asleep and I'll do the rest. You didn't want to but I took advantage of you while you were asleep.'

Oh, how convenient! And not unheard of at S. Endellion I can tell you. There's a hand in my bed. I thought I was dreaming, but it turns out I'm not dreaming at all. It's actually happening! How lovely. Not only that, but in a few ticks I'm going to come all over his invading hand. That'll teach him to mess about with me. I wonder who the hand belongs to? Best not to know. Just turn over and go back to sleep, and wonder. Who was it? Never mind who; the feeling I got. It was a real beauty.

The events in the tents were obviously consequential time-wise, and there was no more footage of the boys' night time shenanigans until what I guessed was the third and their last night before travelling back to Truro on the Saturday morning. The boys had swapped sleeping companions which meant that Quintus must have had three different boys in with him. There was just one more very long sequence that involved Duncan which showed throughout the twenty minutes of footage, just his head and shoulders. There was clearly another person involved but there is no evidence of that person's identity. There was a good deal of sound going on, all provided by Duncan, and by what I guessed was being done to him out of shot. He's on his back so we see him from the side in profile, looking up at somebody and smiling. Then he looks down his body as whoever it is, begins the process.

It's a visual essay in the facial expressions of a boy being pleasured. You might imagine it, with all the sounds that implies. The opening and closing of eyes, the opening and closing of the mouth, the tossing of the head, the deep breathing, and then ragged breathing as the mood heightens; and finally the gasping fulfilment of orgasm and the pearly white streaks across the screen, as the product of a boy's pleasure arrives, flying onto smooth bare flesh.

I rewound to watch again, spellbound, as they say. What a sequence of sound and light. But who was it, the other party?

Last night Duncan came to see me. I was in bed by nine reading The Swimming-Pool Library. And rather enjoying the description of one of the gay sex scenes involving a very lovely sounding boy of a certain age. I had put the book down five minutes earlier to reflect on one of my own boyhood experiences and had quickly developed a hard-on and begun to masturbate, the bedclothes now off my chest and clear of my loins so I could observe my progress. I hadn't produced for a few days so the prospects of a 'good one' were very real, particularly as the story had inspired a vivid memory. The bedside light was on so Duncan caught me red handed, as it were, banged to rights.

The instant I heard a sound I covered up, but too late, and it was obvious what I was doing. I looked around to see Duncan had halted abruptly, one hand still on the edge of the bedroom door.

'Oh, sorry Alex. I……..'

'Don't worry. I got a bit carried away with this book. Come in, please do.'

'I don't want to…….'

'It's ok, I'm done. Well not done really.' I laughed. 'It's fine. Do want to talk?'

'Yes please. I'm in a bit of trouble.'

'Oh gosh. Why?'

'It's Mr Beer.'

'What about him?'

'He keeps inviting me round.'

'Does he indeed. What for?'

'I'm not sure. He keeps asking me questions about me being here. You know, living with you. He wants to know everything. What we do at night. All that kind of stuff. He thinks……..'

'Thinks what Duncan?'

'He thinks that you and me are……..doing things together. I'm sure he does. He askes me what my bedroom is like, and is it a big bed I sleep in. Lots of questions about you too. He knows you make drawings of me; for the clay models you make. He asked me if I do it, and how often. He asked me if you do it for me and if I do it for you. He said he knew we did it together, rude things; in here. These bits.' Duncan continued, touching his bottom.

'He just went on and on. He told me that he would keep on asking me until I told him the truth. He said I was lying to him and that he would have to do something about it. He said that you will lose your job and I would have to go to another school unless I told him.'

'And what did you tell him?'

'Nothing. We haven't ever, have we.'

'No we haven't. Of course we haven't!'

'I told him I wanted to. With you.'

'You told him that?'

'Yes.'

'Oh dear. Is that true?'

'Yes. I always have. I love you.'

A boy's warm body next to mine. Mine to love. A boy to love who will love me back. Not to make love with, but to love with all my heart.

I know what this is about, this interrogation of a junior boy by Mr Quintus Beer. It's all about me really, not Duncan. Ok Quintus, you win.

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