Death Among the Olives

 

Death Among the Olives will be out on December 7th.

It’s like "The Golden Girls" meets "Murder, She Wrote", but with men; and set in Spain.

Pre-order now for the special price of 2.99 (normal price 5.99)

Click Here to Pre-Order

Three middle-aged, gay men, each with their reasons for starting over, share a house in a small, rural town in Andalucia. 

Learning to adjust and adapt to new housemates is a hard trick for these old dogs to learn, and things do not go smoothly. But a sensational murder in their adopted town soon brings the men together. 

The death of a migrant worker in the olive fields has the whole town on tenterhooks, and our three heroes become consumed with the desire to solve the mystery.

“Death Among the Olives,” is a comic and colourful book set in a picturesque region of Southern Spain, renowned for its undulating olive groves and medieval castles.

CHAPTER ONE

Colin

I saw Jack as I walked out of the arrivals gate in Malaga Airport. He was a mildly handsome man. Medium height, slim, short-cropped hair. A little grey in the temples. He looked good for a fifty-year-old. He stood amongst the throng of holiday reps and cab drivers, holding up a sign with my name on it. I smiled. A sign seemed rather unnecessary. I recognised him from the pictures he’d sent me. Surely he’d recognise me from mine.

 “Jack,” I said, walking up to him with an outstretched hand.

He looked me up and down before cautiously taking my hand. “Colin?”

I laughed. “Don’t you recognise me? I sent you photos. Quite recent ones too. I had them taken especially.”

He went red. “Sorry. I’m bad at recognising faces. How was your flight?”

He barely looked me in the eyes from then on. Perhaps I shouldn’t have laughed. “The flight was pleasant enough. A little turbulence over the Atlantic, but otherwise not too bad.”

“My car is over here.” We marched towards the parking lot. He walked a few paces ahead of me,  parking ticket in hand. I tagged along behind him, dragging my two suitcases. Not once did he bother to turn his head and look at me. I couldn’t make out if he was rude or shy.

It was surprisingly hot for January. I was wearing my autumn coat – it was below zero when I’d boarded the plane in Birmingham – and a string vest under my shirt. I was breaking into a sweat.

“So… what’s the weather been like over here?” I was desperately trying to conceal my breathlessness. He looked pretty fit, and I didn’t want to show myself up.

“The weather’s been normal.”

“What’s normal?”

“You never been to Spain?”

“I’ve been to Benidorm a few times. But never in the winter.”

“Well, it rained yesterday. It’s been sunny today.”

“It’s hot now, though, isn’t it?”

“It’s always warm in Malaga, but we’ll be heading inland where it’s much colder. I hope you brought some jumpers.”

He stopped at the ticket machine and inserted the parking ticket. I took this opportunity of taking off my jacket and rubbing my tired shoulders. I hadn’t expected Jack to be galant or anything – we were, after all, just going to be housemates and nothing more. He’d made that perfectly clear in our correspondence – but he could’ve at least offered to take one of the two cases!

He paid the parking fee, then marched on towards a dark grey Land Rover. He opened up the hatch and stepped aside for me to load my bags into the trunk.

“Will I need my jacket?” I asked, huffing and puffing as I lifted my heavy cases into the car.

He looked at me, confused.

“Will it be cold in the car?” I explained.

He frowned and shrugged. “I dunno.” He closed the hatch.

“Well, I’d better take it with me.” I wrapped the jacket around my arm and wiped the sweat from my forehead. “I’m not good with cold. It’s one of the reasons why I decided to move to Spain.”

“It’s a two-hour drive,” he said, opening the car door and stepping behind the wheel. “We should get there just after midnight.”

 ***

It was dark when we drove out of Malaga. I wanted to see the landscape of what was to be my new home, but all I saw were the car’s headlights illuminating the tarmac before me and the silhouette of thousands of olive trees against the starry night sky.

“A lot of olive trees,” I said. It was an inane thing to say, but we’d been largely quiet since we drove out of the airport, and thirty minutes into our journey, I felt someone had to say something.

“The whole province is like that,” Jack said. “They call it the sea of olives. How’s your Spanish?”

“I’ve got an app on my phone. I was studying it on the plane. My resolution is to learn a new word every day. Today’s word is bienvenida. Isn’t that lovely? Sounds like a girl’s name. If I had a daughter, I’d call her Bienvenida.” I smiled, but Jack seemed unimpressed.

“You’ll need more than an app.”

“I’ve been to Spain before, you know? Most of the Spaniards I met speak some English.”

“You’ve been to Benidorm. Alcatrava is not Benidorm. We’re heading into the back of beyond. It’s the old Spain. People there still live in the 1950s.”

I smiled. “Sounds idyllic.”

Jack went quiet again. I stared at the reflection of his face on the windshield. It was a handsome face. A little craggy, a little wrinkly, but attractive. And he’d be even more handsome if he’d smile once in a while. I wondered if he’d always been this gruff. What had he been like as a young man? I bet he was quite a looker. One of those men who was good-looking without knowing it. A diamond in the rough.

“How long have you lived in Alcatrava?” I asked. We’d had almost five minutes of silence. I felt another question was in place.

“Didn’t I tell you?” was his answer.

He had told me. He’d sent me a very short bio during our correspondence. He’d been living in Spain for five years. He worked as an English teacher at a language academy. Before that, he’d been a primary school teacher in Africa and South America, where he’d learned to speak Spanish. But there was nothing there about his personal life. It was a very cagey bio. He was very cagey now.

“I can’t remember,” I said.

“Five years.”

“And why did you choose to move to Alcatrava?”

“It was the only place where I could afford to buy a house.”

“But surely that wasn’t the only reason.”

“It was.”

“There’s going to be another housemate, isn’t there?”

“Yes. He’s flown into Madrid and is making his own way down. He’ll probably show up tomorrow.”

“So, tell me something about him. What’s his name?”

“Victor de Souza.”

“Ooh. Sounds exotic. Where’s he from?”

“England.”

“He doesn’t sound English.”

“Well, he is.”

Jack sounded very glum. I got the impression he didn’t really want any housemates. That he was begrudgingly renting out his spare rooms to make a little money, it would explain his cold reception of me.

“Well, tell me more about him,” I said. “What is he like? How old is he? What does he do?”

Jack frowned. “I don’t know anything about him.”

“He must’ve sent you some information. I did.”

“He’s sixty-five. He’s a retired actor.”

“An actor? Oooh! What’s he been in?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll look him up.” I took my phone out of my pocket and consulted IMDB. “How do you spell his name?”

Jack spelled out his name to me, and I typed it in. “Oh, here he is. He’s been in a 1981 movie called Malicious Intent. He played belligerent punk 4. And he was in an episode of Casualty. Those are all the credits. I don’t suppose he was a very successful actor.” I put my phone away. “Or maybe he was more of a theatre actor.”

Jack seemed completely uninterested. “Maybe.”

We fell into silence again. I turned towards the window. The moon shone over a small hill, popping out of the sea of olive trees. A castle stood on the top of the hill, around it a cluster of tiny white houses.

“What’s that castle over there?” I asked.

Jack shrugged. “I don’t know. There are so many of them. Every village has a castle around here. There’s one in Alcatrava too, but it’s a ruin.”

“Why are there so many castles?”

“Because of the Reconquista.”

“The what?”

He finally turned towards me and scowled. “Don’t you know your Spanish history?”

There was something a little rude about his tone. Or perhaps I was being over-sensitive (I am a rather sensitive chap). Maybe he thought me ignorant – which I admit I am– or maybe he thought I was talking too much. Either way, I ignored it. I couldn’t sit in silence for two hours. And anyway, I wanted to get to know my new housemate.

“I’m afraid I haven’t read up on Spanish history yet. I planned to discover it all when I’ve settled into my new home.”

“This whole region used to belong to the Moors.” There was still a frown on his face. “The Christian Spaniards conquered it off them. You really should read up on the history of the places you visit. It’ll help you appreciate them better.”

He sounded like a school teacher. Well, I guess he’d been one for so long, he couldn’t help it.

“I’ve never travelled much in my life,” was my defense. “My parents were poor. We used to go to Blackpool or Scarborough for our summer holidays. And I went to Benidorm a few times with Nigel. Nigel was my partner.”

“I know.”

“We recently split up. After twenty-five years.”

“I know. You wrote about it in your email.”

He was still frowning. What was his problem? Was I getting too personal?

“I know I wrote to you about it, but I still want to tell you.”

That did the trick. He stopped frowning and almost smiled at me—a half-smile. By way of an apology, I think.

“We met when I was in my late twenties. He was a few years younger than me. He’d only just come out, and I was his first boyfriend. We were perfectly happy for most of the time. It’s only in the last few years that he started having doubts. I suppose he was having some kind of mid-life crisis. He said he wanted to start playing around. Said he’d missed out on it when he was young. He’d hooked up with me and never had anyone else, and now he wanted to catch up before it was too late. So after twenty-five years, we split up. Sold the house we’d bought together, split the money, and went our separate ways. And now here I am. Making a fresh start of it in Spain.”

I smiled at him, but he didn’t smile back. Instead, he just kept staring ahead of him; his hands gripped tightly against the wheel, an anguished expression on his face. Poor guy. He was one of those repressed, introverted types that couldn’t handle personal conversations. But I didn’t care. We were going to be housemates, for god’s sake! I was determined to get to know him better.

“What about you?” I asked.

“What about me?”

“How’s your love life?”

“I haven’t got one.”

“You haven’t met any handsome Spanish men in the five years that you’ve been here?”

“No.”

“What about your exes, then?”

“I haven’t got any exes.”

“You haven’t been in a relationship before?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“Nope.”

I stared at him with disbelief. Fifty years old, and he’d never been in a relationship? Was he lying? Or was he just being evasive, hoping that this would put a stop to the personal conversation?

“Oh,” I said and resumed staring out the window. I’ll get him to open up soon enough, I thought. I had a knack for that.

 ***

At some point during the drive, I dozed off. I was jolted awake when Jack slammed his foot on the brake, and the car screeched to a halt. I had drool running down my chin and a pain in my neck. Lord knows how long I’d been asleep.

I looked at Jack. He was staring at the road, an expression of shock on his face.

“What happened?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. He unfastened his seat belt, opened the door, and jumped out of the car.

I also unfastened my seatbelt and stepped outside. As I walked towards the front of the car, I saw someone lying on the road. A young black man, with a dark blue hoodie and jeans. Around his neck, he wore a seashell neckless. I put my hands to my mouth. “Oh my God! Did you hit him?”

Jack didn’t answer. He was looking down at the man. “¿Estás bien?” he asked.

The man lifted his head. He looked at Jack. Then he turned and looked at me.

Jack said something else in Spanish. I don’t know what he said, but it involved the words hospital and ambulancia.

The man shook his head. He pushed himself up and slowly got on his feet. He was not well. He put his hands to his face and swayed from side to side.

Jack repeated the words hospital and ambulancia. More firmly this time. But the young man wouldn’t have any of it. He shook his head and walked off, mumbling something in Spanish.

“What did he say?” I asked.

“He says he wants us to leave him alone.”

“What happened? Did you hit him?”

Jack frowned. “I did not hit him! He walked into the car. He’s drunk. Or doped.”

I watched the man stumble down the road. It was only at that point that I realised we had reached the outskirts of a small town. I saw it rise before me. A ramshackle pile of tiny white houses, built up a rocky hill, with church steeples and palm trees sticking out here and there. The orange glow of streetlights formed a kind of halo around it, making it look very magical and unreal.

“You can’t just let him walk away,” I said. “He might have a concussion. You should call an ambulance.”

“He doesn’t want an ambulance.”

“So you’re just going to let him walk away?”

“That’s what he wants.”

Jack stepped back and got into the car. I remained where I was and watched the man stumble off the road and onto a dust track among the olive trees.

I turned back towards Jack, sitting at the wheel, strapped into his seat, looking ahead of him and breathing deeply. He was still in shock. “Do you know who he is?”

“African migrant worker,” he said. “It’s olive harvest season. The town is full of them.”

I walked back towards the car and climbed in. “Are you all right?” I asked.

“I’m fine.” He changed gear, put his hands on the steering wheel, and drove on. “We’re here,” he said. “This is Alcatrava. Welcome home.”

 ***

 I felt butterflies in my stomach as Jack drove into the town. It looked rather ordinary at first, apartment blocks on either side of the deserted road, punctuated by occasional cafes, betting shops, or grocery stores. But then Jack turned upwards towards the old town, and here the architecture changed. We were in the old Spain now, just as Jack had said. Whitewashed houses standing side by side, some very large, some curiously small. Some had been modernised; others retained their authentic wooden doors and shutters. Some had pretty Juliet balconies, others large roof terraces with crenelated walls. Some were decorated from top to bottom with potted geraniums; others were abandoned and at the point of collapse.

I marveled at the skill with which Jack navigated the confusing maze of impossibly narrow roads. I dreaded the day I’d have to drive down them. We were lucky it was already past midnight, and the streets were quiet. Heaven knows what Jack would’ve done if we’d met an oncoming car.

Suddenly he stopped at the side of the road, took off his seatbelt, and opened the door. “We’re here,” he said and got out.

“We’re here?” I stepped out of the car and looked around me. This street was indistinguishable from all the others. Lord knows how I’d ever be able to find my own way. “Which one is it?” I asked, looking at the houses on either side.

He pointed at the largest house on the street—an enormous white building with an orange tiled roof. It looked much larger than in the pictures Jack had sent me. There were three of them, and an attic with quaint little wooden window frames. “That’s your house?” I asked, amazed.

“Our house,” he corrected.

That comment took me aback. Jack had been very unwelcoming so far, but that little comment made my day. It was then that it really dawned on me I was starting a new life.  I’d been through a lot of heartbreak with Nigel, but I’d managed to pull myself together. And now here I stood, Fifty-two years old and starting all over again in a foreign country. Tears welled in my eyes. Luckily it was too dark for Jack to see them.

He opened the boot of the car and walked towards the house, searching his pockets for the house keys, leaving me to take out the cases on my own. I followed him to the door.

The entrance hall led to a spacious living room. The terracotta-coloured floor tiles were shiny and clean, but there was nothing on the white walls. Nor were there any curtains on the windows—just plastic blinds with a layer of dust on each slat. And as for furniture, there was nothing there but a simple table with a plastic top - the kind you find in greasy spoon cafes - and three fold-up chairs. A bare light bulb dangling from the ceiling was all that illuminated the room.  It looked like a squatter’s residence.

“What happened to the furniture?” I asked.

He looked at me, confused. “This all came with the house.”

“Where is the settee? The armchairs? The television?”

He shrugged. “I don’t need any of that stuff. I just eat here.” He pointed at an arched doorway. “The kitchen is through there.”

The kitchen looked like something you’d find in a typical 1950s home. Lime green linoleum flooring, a top loader washing machine, stove and oven combo, and a white refrigerator. I opened one of the cabinets. Three cereal boxes, two of them empty, and a couple of teabags, lying outside the box.

“You don’t have much food, do you?”

“I only have breakfast at home,” he said. “I usually eat out. It’s cheap here.”

He took me upstairs, where my bedroom was. I carried the two cases up on my own. My room looked like a monk’s cell; a single wooden bed and a chair, a built-in closet with a railing and two wooden clothes hangers, but no shelves. Again, there was no lampshade on the light bulb dangling from the ceiling.

“You’re not much into interior decorating, are you?” I said. I smiled to lessen the tone of criticism.

He just shrugged.

He stood beneath the light bulb, giving me the chance to have a good look at his clothes. He wore corduroy trousers, a blue t-shirt under a green and brown woolen cardigan, which looked like it was knitted many decades ago by his mother or grandmother, and which he whipped out of a moth-infested chest every winter along with the blankets and the electric heaters.

How was this man gay? If it hadn’t been for the fact that he’d advertised for housemates on a website for gay men over fifty, I’d never have guessed. He looked like one of those clueless bachelors you see on Queer Eye, who need a whole team of loud, flamboyant gays to teach him how to dress, cook and make their homes more homely.

I put one of my cases on the bed, opened it up, and took out a bottle of Cava. “Time for a little welcome drink, I think.” I proudly held the bottle up to show him.

He looked at it and wavered. “I…um. I don’t normally drink alcohol before going to bed. It gives me heartburn.”

“You’re not going to bed now, are you?”

“Well, I am rather tired.”

I frowned. “You’re not going to deprive me of my celebratory drink. This is the first day of my new life, and we’re going down to the kitchen and get drunk! You do have glasses, I hope.”

“I have some disposable plastic cups somewhere.”

I shook my head and laughed. I had a lot of work to do here. But I welcomed the challenge.

 

 CHAPTER TWO

Jack

I woke up at ten o’clock, rubbed my eyes and re-checked the alarm clock. I usually woke at seven. If it wasn’t the sun waking me, it was my neighbour’s motorbike roaring down the street. I blamed it on the Cava. It gave me a terrible bout of heartburn.

I sat up and swung my legs off the bed. There was something wrong with my knee. It hurt every time I bent it. Must’ve been all that pacing around the airport while I waited for Colin.

The thought of my new housemate suddenly made my stomach turn. I could hear him downstairs, moving about doing lord knows what. And he was singing. Something by The Carpenters, I think. I hung my head and sighed. Had I made a terrible mistake? It seemed like a good idea at the time, renting out the two empty bedrooms so I could finally stop teaching. But what price freedom?

  Colin seemed amiable enough, but I didn’t like how he criticised the lack of furniture the moment he entered my house. And now he was ruining my morning routine with all that racket. Mornings were precious to me. The highlight of my day used to be sitting on my terrace, doing the Guardian crossword, while sipping my tea and eating my cereal. I was never in the mood for other people before lunchtime.

I sighed. It was going to take a long time to get used to people again. I was too old now for their bullshit. And too stuck in my ways.

A terrible pang shot through my knee as I got up and reached for my dressing gown. It made me wince. I discovered that the pain was bearable if I avoided bending my leg. And so, slipping on my dressing gown, I limped out of my room and towards the bathroom.

Colin came skipping up the stairs at that moment.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he shouted. He looked me up and down and screwed up his face. “Oh dear! When was the last time you washed that dressing gown?”

“What?”

He pointed at a yellow stain on my lapel. “What’s that? Egg?”

I looked at the lapel. “Oh yes. I always have a boiled egg on Sunday.”

“Well, it’s Wednesday today. I think that dressing gown is due for the washing basket, don’t you? I’ve already prepared breakfast. It’s on the terrace. You didn’t tell me about the terrace last night, you sly thing!” He put his hand on my chest and gave me a little shove. “Hoping to keep that to yourself, were you? I discovered it this morning. I saw the sun shining through the window, so I opened the back door, and there it was. My God, the view! We can see all of Alcatrava from there. I didn’t realise we were so high up. Anyway, go and freshen up, and meet me on the terrace. I’ll make the coffee. Or do you prefer tea?”

I just stared at him, dazed. My head spinning. I couldn’t handle that much talk first thing in the morning.

He was waiting for a response. “Well?”

“Tea,” I mumbled.

“Righty -ho.” He skipped back down the stairs. “By the way, you’ll find a few surprises when you go downstairs.” He stopped halfway down and turned to face me again. “I got up early and went to do some shopping at the market. What a wonderful little plaza we have down here. And so close to our house. I hope you like what I’ve done with the living room.” He winked and continued his way down the stairs, singing that infernal song!

 ***

He’d put a cheap, tacky table cloth with pink roses on the dining table and matching cushions on the seats.

Colin stood in the living room, hands on his hips, staring at me with pride. “Well? What do you think?”

“It’s lovely,” I mumbled.

“And that’s not all. Look there.” He pointed at the light. On the light bulb hung a paper lantern. Pink.

I frowned. “Very nice,” I said.

“It’s only temporary. I plan to go into town and buy some furniture.”

I was about to object, but Colin shut me up by wagging his finger.

“No, no. I won’t listen to any protestations. It’ll be my treat. You provide the house; I provide the furniture. Now, let’s go outside and have some breakfast.”

I followed him out to the terrace. My terrace, where I used to be able to enjoy the silence. Colin had put another ghastly table cloth on the garden table, and potted geraniums on the wall, which blocked my view of the town.

“I’ve made fried eggs, bacon, sausages and look…” He picked up an opened can of baked beans. “I brought it with me from England. When I was in Benidorm, I saw that baked beans weren’t easy to get hold of in Spain.”

“I normally just have cereal for breakfast,” I said.

“Well, you’re having a full English today. Sit down. Let me pour you your tea.”

I sat down. A pain reshot through my knee, and I winced.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. It’s just my knee. For some reason, it suddenly started hurting every time I bend it.”

Colin shook his head. “Oh dear. We’re at that age, aren’t we? When things suddenly start hurting for no reason. You should have that looked at.”

“It’ll probably go away.”

He poured my tea, then picked up a plate of biscuits and showed me. “Look what I got from the convent at the plaza. Nun biscuits. They make them themselves.”

“I know about those biscuits. They’re very dry. They make me choke.”

“You’re supposed to dunk them in your coffee. The mother superior said so. I spoke to her. She speaks excellent English. In fact, she offered me a job.”

I looked up, surprised. “A job?”

“A voluntary job. She needs an English teacher for her school in New Guinea. I told her I’d only just arrived in Spain and I wasn’t interested in moving again. But I mentioned you. I told her you were a qualified teacher. She seemed very interested.”

I frowned. “I’ve already been to the Tropics. I’m not going back.”

“I know. I said you probably wouldn’t be interested, but she seemed so desperate, poor thing. Their last teacher abandoned them. Left them completely in the lurch.”

“I wonder why he left.”

“I didn’t ask.” He sat down opposite me and served himself an egg and two rashers. “Well, go on,” he said. “Help yourself before it gets cold.”

“You’ve been very busy this morning.”

“Well, I was woken up early by a very loud motorbike.”

I rolled my eyes. “That’s Ismael. He lives a couple of houses down the road. He got himself a new motorbike a few days ago. Spends all day riding it up and down the street.”

“It’s very loud. There must be something wrong with the engine.”

“It’s a cross bike. It’s not meant to be used in town.”

“Don’t the neighbours complain?”

“Everyone complains. Ismael is the local anti-social layabout. If it’s not the motorbike, it’s the loud music or his general delinquent behaviour. But you’ll get used to it. Apart from him, this is a tranquil and problem-free street.”

The doorbell rang. We both jolted in our seats.

“Who could that be?” Colin asked.

Suddenly I remembered. “Oh, shit!” I mumbled. “That must be Victor.”

 A broad smile appeared on Colin’s face. “Hurray, the Actor!” He clapped his hands. “Now the family is complete! Let’s go meet him.” He jumped up from the table and ran to the door.

 ***

Victor de Souza stood in the doorway; a big imposing man, with dark skin, thick peppery hair and a beaming white smile. He looked completely out of place wearing a long black coat that reached to his ankles and a broad-rimmed black hat. In fact, he looked like he’d just stepped out of a film set. I caught Doña Lourdes from across the street peering at us through the net curtains.

“Well, this is a gay apparel,” Victor said, in a camp and theatrical manner. He was quoting a film or a play – I don’t know which one – and he was referring to my dressing gown, which I forgot I was wearing.

“You must be Victor,” I said.

“You were expecting me, I hope?”

“Not this early.”

“Well, I didn’t come all the way from Madrid. I stopped over in Cordoba. Wonderful place!” He picked up his suitcase and pushed past me into the house. He saw Colin standing behind me. “And who are you?”

“I’m Colin. I’m the other housemate.” He smiled and shook his hand.

“Well, at least you’re wearing clothes. I was feeling a little overdressed.” He turned back towards me. “Why aren’t you dressed? Are you ill?”

“He’s got a problem with his knee,” Colin answered.

“Oh dear, did you have a fall?”

Did I have a fall? I frowned at the condescending tone. “No. It just came up on its own. It’s probably nothing.”

“Came up on its own?” He burst out laughing. “I wish I had that problem. Nowadays, I’m forced to rely on Viagra.”

Colin joined in with the laughter, but I groaned. Oh God, I thought. He’s one of those.

“Well, show me the house, then.”

I made to open the door towards the living room, but Colin beat me to it.

“This is the living room,” Colin said, spreading his arms out like an estate agent. “As you can see, it is very spacious.”

“Where’s all the furniture?”

Colin laughed. “That’s what I said. Turns out, Jack is a minimalist.”

I frowned. “I didn’t say I was a minimalist.”

“I told Jack I’d buy some furniture. I was planning to buy some today. Are there any furniture shops around here, Jack?”

“There are some in the industrial estate.”

 “Well, let’s go there, the three of us,” Victor suggested. “I’ll chip in. I want some furniture too. And a big-screen television. I’m binge-watching 13 Reasons Why, and I can’t go a day without watching those hot young schoolboys having it off with each other.”

I cringed. Victor was one of those old queens who was constantly trying to shock people with crude jokes and innuendos. A tired old stereotype. I’d made a terrible mistake. I should never have accepted Victor (although, in all honesty, Victor and Colin were the only two people who replied to my announcement).

“I looked you up on IMDB,” Colin said. “You played belligerent punk number four in Malicious Intent.”

Victor smiled. “Ah. I see my fame precedes me. It was my first and only movie. I had one line in it. Get off me, guv’nor! It was my crowning glory.”

Colin laughed again. He kept staring at Victor with wide admiring eyes.

“I’m afraid I never did quite make it to Hollywood. It was dinner theatre and the London Fringe for me. But I’ve quit that scene now. I’ve quit London, I’ve quit England. I want nothing more to do with that place. All I want is a quiet life in the sun. Now, which of you two handsome fellows do I need to fuck to get a cup of coffee?”

I frowned at the vulgarity, but Colin chuckled.

“I’ll make you one. How do you want it?”

“Irish.”

“How’s that?”

“With a touch of whisky. But don’t worry. Just give it to me black – as the missionary’s wife once said. I’ll add my own.” He pulled a hip flask out of his coat pocket and showed it to Colin.

Colin laughed and skipped towards the kitchen. “Jack, Why don’t you show Victor the terrace while I make the coffee.” He stopped and turned towards Victor. “By the way, I bought nun biscuits this morning.”

“Nun biscuits?”

“From the convent in the plaza. To dunk in the coffee.”

“Sounds intriguing. Are they made of real nuns?”

I rolled my eyes, but Colin burst out laughing again.

While Colin served the coffee, I led Victor towards the terrace. Ismael’s motorbike roared by at that moment, rattling the windows and making an all-mighty racket.

“Oh my! An earthquake!” Victor said, putting his hands on his chest and turning melodramatically towards me.

“No. That’s just Ismael.”

“Who?”

“The neighbour. Playing with his new toy.”

Colin shouted from the kitchen. “He’s the local anti-social layabout.” He talked as if he’d been living here for ages. “Keeps riding that motorbike up and down the street at all hours. I was woken up by him this morning. It’s a cross motorbike, you know. Not meant for town.”

“How monstrous!” Victor said, still holding his hands to his chest. “It almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Let’s go outside,” I said, pushing him towards the terrace door. “You’ll hear it less over there.”

 ***

Colin and Victor sat on the brand new settee watching television that evening, and I joined them on the luxurious recliner. I admit it was very comfortable. The sofa was cream coloured, the recliner black leather. They looked good in the living room. There had been a bit of discussion about which seats to go for, but luckily Victor won. If it had been Colin, I’d have ended up with a ghastly red chaise-longue and two pink flowery armchairs. I offered to pay for the whole lot, but the two men insisted we split the cost three ways.

I have to confess; I quite enjoyed watching television with my house-mates. It reminded me of a homeliness I hadn’t felt since I left my childhood home when the whole family would gather together to watch Surprise Surprise.

The show that Victor had chosen for us, however, was not to my liking. It was one of those American high school dramas, where the kids were much too mature and eloquent for their age. It was meant to explore teenage issues, but it did so in such a ham-fisted manner I couldn’t stand it.

The scene that irked me the most was when one of the main characters took his boyfriend to a crowded bowling alley, then leaned in and kissed him on the mouth. I think I let out an audible groan.

Victor gave me a sidewards glance. “What are you scoffing at, Jack?”

“Two schoolboys kissing in a bowling alley!” I said. “Ridiculous!”

“Why is that ridiculous?” There was a tone of irritation in his voice.

“You ever tried kissing another man in a bowling alley?”

“I don’t go bowling, my dear.”

“Well, it’s not realistic. Those boys are risking their lives doing that. Where are all the raised eyebrows? The disapproving glances? The homophobic remarks? It’s not realistic.”

“Maybe things have moved on a little since you were young,” Victor said.

“Things haven’t moved on that much. Two schoolboys wouldn’t be able to kiss in public without being harassed.” I couldn’t help ranting. There was something about the manner with which Victor had dismissed my comments that got my back up. “This show’s whole raison d’etre is to explore real teenage issues.”

Victor pulled a mocking face at my use of raison d’etre, but I ignored him.

“High school and adolescence are the single most traumatic experiences in a gay man’s life,” I continued. “It has effects on our confidence and self-image, which last a lifetime. And this show skims over that. It acts as if gay teenagers can have a blossoming love life just like anyone else. Well, they can’t! Gay teenagers miss out on all that. They don’t get to be themselves until after they’ve left school. They don’t get to find out who they are until they’re fully grown adults.”

“It’s just a bit of romantic escapism, Jackie-boy. I think you’re being a bit bitter, dear.”

“Bitter?”

“I was like you once. Seeing all those young gays leading full lives, having school romances, and sexy sleepovers with full parental approval, and weddings. It reminded me of all I’d missed out on, and it turned me into a bitter old queen. But I got over that. Now, do be quiet, Jackie dear, and pay attention. I think we’ve just missed a pivotal scene.”  He picked up the remote control and rewound the film.

I didn’t say anything. I’d said too much already. But inside, I was fuming. Victor was wrong. Sexy sleepovers with full parental approval? What world did he live in? And why did he have to keep calling me dear? This kind of camp, effeminate behaviour really got my back up. It was so artificial.

I put my glass of gin and tonic on the table and stood up. “I’m going to bed,” I said and limped off to the staircase.

Victor and Colin looked surprised. “So soon?”

“Good night!”

I saw the two of them exchange glances as I stumbled up the stairs, but I didn’t care. No doubt they’d spend the rest of the night talking about me. About my discomfort, about my unexpected outburst, my “bitterness.” Well, let them. At least it would give them something to bond over.