Simon Smythe was a gay man of a certain age. He’d been a child when homosexuality ceased to be a crime, so by the time he was an adult he didn’t have to fear reprisals from the law. There were still compelling reasons for keeping his orientation a secret, however: he came from a family of staunch Fenland Methodists who regarded even heterosexual sex with distaste, only to be tolerated if practised as joylessly as possible for the purposes of procreation.
Simon had nursed both his parents through long illnesses until they’d died just a few months apart, both still believing that their only son had so devoted himself to them that he’d had no time to select the mother of their future grandchildren. Once on his own, he’d retrained as a social worker, specialising in caring for children at risk. He’d also been free, at last, to form relationships with other men and although none of these had lasted more than a few months he’d found each one fulfilling. The break-ups had been amicable and he still had high hopes of discovering a permanent partner. He had ‘come out’ now and felt happier – and even younger – with each year that passed.
He’d also developed a taste for experimentation. Although his goal was always to establish a meaningful relationship, he’d also needed to find other outlets for the frustrated fantasies that he’d nurtured for decades. Coached by some of his partners, he’d discovered how to pick up trade in clubs and bars. At first, he’d travelled to larger towns and cities for this purpose, but more recently he’d found that Spalding had its own small but buoyant ‘gays-for-pay’ community.
He’d finished work early on the Wednesday and gone home to shower. He lived in a small but comfortable flat above a shoe shop in the town centre. He kept the flat neat, but before his shower he took the trouble to tidy away a pair of shoes and a few books and magazines. It wasn’t his habit to take his pick-ups home with him, but he’d met a guy the previous weekend whom he was very taken with. He knew that many of the trade gays weren’t gay at all, just doing it for the money, but this guy was different. He was certainly not merely pretending to enjoy the sex and he and Simon hit it off in other ways, too. Despite the fact that their relationship was at present purely transactional, Simon had hopes of it turning into something more intimate. He even entertained some diffident hopes that François could be ‘the one’.
He combed his wet hair, which was greying now but still wavy and luxuriant, back off his forehead and secured it in a neat, short ponytail at the nape of his neck. His wardrobe was modest in size, but contained only pieces that he liked, some of which had been costly. The previous weekend he’d been wearing a red plaid shirt and a pair of J Brand jeans, his favourites. François had told him how nice he’d looked, so he decided to choose the same outfit again. He’d washed the shirt since then and had the jeans dry-cleaned (he never washed his jeans – it pulled them out of shape).
They’d agreed to meet in a small bar in Double Street, a quiet road only a few hundred yards from Spalding town centre, at 7.30pm. Simon set off soon after 7pm; Double Street was only a few minutes’ walk from his flat, but after years of ensuring that first his parents and then the children under his care never missed appointments, he was, as he often ruefully acknowledged, ‘pathologically early’. The evening was turning cool, so he’d knotted a Burberry cashmere jumper round his shoulders in case he needed it later on. He’d bought a small gift for François, a box of Belgian shell chocolates, which he carried in a Burberry tote.
The evenings had begun to draw in, but it was still quite light. There wasn’t much traffic about. He passed a few pedestrians as he walked through the town, but when he turned into Double Street he saw no one except a man on a bicycle heading towards the High Street bridge. The man glanced at him briefly but did not respond when Simon called out ‘Evening!’
Looking ahead, he saw the street wasn’t as deserted as he’d first thought. A slight figure up ahead of him was just disappearing round the corner that led into the lower part of the street, where the Quaker chapel stood. He was certain it was François, a wiry little Frenchman who loved bright colours: this man was wearing a turquoise-and-purple striped rugby shirt and maroon corduroy trousers and, although Simon hadn’t yet seen François dressed like that, the clothes were just what he’d have expected the Frenchman to choose.
Evidently François, who was new to the town, had walked straight past the bar, which was very discreet. It stood well back from the pavement and wasn’t well-lit. Simon hesitated to shout out to François: this was a residential area, and he knew the owner of the bar was careful to keep on the right side of his neighbours. Instead, he broke into a run, hoping to catch up before François reached the end of the street and lost his bearings completely.
Simon had run only a few steps – he was just beginning to pick up speed – when suddenly he tripped across an obstacle on the pavement, lost his footing and fell headlong. The tote bag containing the chocolates slid out of his grasp and was pitched into the gutter. His first thought was to retrieve it, but when he tried to move his breathing became ragged and he could feel a sharp pain in his chest. He hoped he had just winded himself, nothing worse. His chin was hurting. Gingerly, he raised the trembling fingers of his right hand to touch it. Even before he could inspect them he knew they would be bloody.
He was trying to haul himself into a sitting position when he felt someone grab the collar of his shirt. For a few brief seconds he thought himself fortunate: the person must have witnessed the accident and come to help him. He tried to twist his head round so that he could see who it was.
The grip on his collar tightened.
‘You don’t need to look at me,’ said a soft voice. ‘I’m not very interesting. But you do need to do exactly what I tell you.’