Lustful Gaze (London Loves #6) (3 page)

Harry smirked. “You can’t catch ‘gay’ you know.”

Scott laughed. “Oh really? I thought you could!”

Harry sagged. “Actually, plenty of people in India believe it. Even in the medical profession.”

“But obviously not your dad; or you wouldn’t be here.”

“No. To be truthful, I requested I be allowed to come here, sir. I told him I wanted to learn the commercial side of the art world as well as the creative. He seemed to go along with that. And besides, he knows his money speaks louder than you do around these parts.”

“That’s true.” Scott poured out the tea. He smiled at the young man. “Harry, will you do me a favour?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Will you stop calling me ‘sir’ please? It’s making me feel weird.”

Harry’s beautiful face lit up with a sincere chuckle. “Of course!”

“Thank you. Here’s your tea.”

Harry padded over and joined him by the counter.

Scott poured a dash of milk into each cup. “So what’s it like being gay in India? I know it’s a pretty sexist place, so I assume they’re not great fans of homos? Do you take sugar?”

“No, no sugar.” He gazed into his tea. “Well, you’d think living in the world’s largest democracy being gay would be easy, but it’s not. I spent most of my teens denying what I am. But I couldn’t stop myself from being attracted to men – it’s impossible.  Between Shipla Shetty and Raj Kundra, I always liked Raj more – I can’t help it. You can’t change something like that – it’s deep-seated.”

Scott dropped a sugar-cube into his cup. “Absolutely. I’ve always preferred Brad to Angelina. It’s just the way it is. But I’m sure India’s changing, isn’t it – now that it’s a booming economy? I guess it must be like it was here when me and Paul were your age. It’ll slowly improve, maybe in the next generation, huh?”

Harry sipped his tea. “You know homosexuality was
made
illegal in India in 2014, right?”

Scott’s knees filled with dread. “What?”

“Yeah. It was legalised in 2009 and then illegalised again five years later.”

“That’s insane. So how have
you
coped all this time?”

“By trying hard to become heterosexual.”

“Oh really? And how’s that going?”

“Not good! I tried to have sex with a girl at high school, but it was a disaster. I couldn’t become aroused, and I didn’t want to touch her. She got offended and spread rumours that I must be gay.”

Scott smiled kindly. “Well, I guess she was right. I’ve always found the best way to deal with rumours like that is to confirm them. It steals their power.”

“I can’t, Scott. I can’t tell anyone – not even in the UK.”

“You told me.”

“That’s totally different – I know you won’t tell my parents. But most people in the Indian community are nosy and they love to gossip. It would get back to them in an instant and I would be disowned.”

“Harry, your parents love you.”

“I know. But you don’t understand how important marriage is in Indian culture. If you’re not married, you’re not part of the society. It’s all about family. Homosexuality is totally frowned upon. Even the professional doctors in India will prescribe medication to try to cure gayness – you think that attitude goes away just because people emigrate to here?”

“So why would your dad authorise you to study in Brighton, then? Surely he must know it’s a gay Mecca. Oh sorry, that doesn’t offend you, does it?”

Harry laughed. “No, I’m a Hindu.”

Scott chuckled. “Good. Sorry.”

Harry sighed. “To answer your question, I believe he wants me to get it out of my system now, then to spend the rest of my life trying to cure my perversion.”

Scott wrinkled his nose. “Has he told you that?”

“No, definitely not! He’d never admit he suspects my sexuality. He’d think that will cause it to become worse!”

Scott felt hopeless. What sort of advice could he give to someone who was so entrenched in a homophobic situation? He glanced over at the crate of paintings.

“Come on, let’s get this exhibition up and we can share our homophobia stories as we work.”

Harry nodded. “Yes, okay. And it’s a whole three years until I need to get engaged, so I should certainly make the most of my freedom until then.”

“Yeah,” Scott said. “And who knows what might happen between now and then. Maybe the solution to your problem is just around the corner!”

Soho had changed a lot in the twenty years since Paul had first come here with Scott as a teenager. In fact, it’d been transformed from seedy to sophisticated. Some things
had
stayed the same; for example, the rectangular four-storey Georgian buildings remained, which made the narrow streets feel hemmed-in. And the expressionless shop-fronts would probably always be grubby, and, of course, it was still practically impossible to find a parking space. But it was hard to believe that only a couple of decades ago, this had been London’s red-light district – and back then it’d reeked of tempting opportunities for a quick fuck in a room above a shop –
or
in a public lavatory.

Paul remembered his first visit, aged fifteen. It’d been Scott’s idea to go there, of course. He’d read about this city-centre gay playground in
Euro Boy
and he’d been keen to investigate. Scott’s experience had been exciting and refreshing – finally he’d found somewhere that he could express himself without feeling like a freak. But for Paul, it’d been overwhelming and intimidating. Soho back then had consisted of sex shops, strip joints, and neon lights advertising salacious fun. It’d seemed so cheap to Paul, and he’d been disappointed to think
this
might be what it meant to be gay. He didn't like to label himself as anything – he simply loved Scott who happened to be a man, and so what? It didn’t mean he needed to behave like a camp ostentatious sex-maniac.

Ever since then Paul had decided to distance himself from the whole ‘scene’ thing. He just wanted to have a normal life with the person he loved. Paul had never been ashamed of his sexuality; he just didn’t want to bang a drum about it.

It was good now, though, how much easier things were for gay lads. Gay people no longer needed to go out of their way to behave in an
ideal
version of what it meant to be gay. Because actually, these days, no one really cared who you loved or who you wanted to fuck. Just as long as you were a good person and didn’t piss anyone off, things were pretty harmonious. At least in the UK.

But there was still progress to be made. Soho and Brighton were really the only places in the UK where you’d see gay people holding hands and feeling completely safe. Paul smiled now as he noticed a couple of middle-aged women walking towards him with their arms around each other – probably on their way home from work, as Paul was. He reached up and loosened his tie, undoing his top button and hoping to let the summer breeze circulate. He knew he could justifiably remove his suit jacket on a balmy evening like this, but somehow he never felt quite dressed without it.

The August evening sunshine had brought out shoppers and drinkers tonight, and the street bustled with crowds of people ready to let off steam after a hard day at the office. The streets were packed with rowdy people, and Paul suddenly felt vulnerable about the precious gift he was carrying in the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

He patted his ribs to check the little jewellery box was still there. Yes, good. He couldn’t risk being pickpocketed tonight. There were thieves everywhere and he knew he looked like an easy target with his expensive suit and slim build. Paul always tried to stay out of trouble, but he was prepared to fight for the antique ring in pocket tonight.

Paul crossed the road and saw a homeless guy sitting forlornly in the doorway of a disused shop. Paul grabbed a handful of change from his trouser pocket and dropped it into the man’s ragged hat as he passed. He felt terrible for not giving him more. Surely he could just go to the ATM and draw out enough money for the poor guy to get a decent meal and a bed for the night. 

Paul knew he should do more for the homeless – for society. He had all this money now, but what good was it if he couldn’t use it to reduce the suffering in the world a little bit?

Paul was pulled from his daydreaming by a piercing cry for help from a side-alley. No one else on the crowded sidewalk flinched, but Paul’s legs filled with energy and he instinctively veered towards the voice, and rushed down the alley. Someone was in trouble, and he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he ignored their cries.

The dingy side-alley stunk of blood and sewage. It was definitely a part of Soho that Westminster Council would want tourists to avoid. This was where the restaurants stored their garbage, waiting futilely for the refuse collectors to remove it – or for the vermin to eat it.

With a jolt of surprise, Paul realised that the cry had come from a young man who was being pushed about by a couple of mean-looking thugs. Unthinkingly, Paul ran towards the melee, propelled by adrenaline and the need to protect. Time slowed as one of the thugs punched the young man so hard that he bounced against the brick wall and hit his head. He landed in a pile of slippery trash bags with a crash.

It was dirty and secluded down here and, as Paul’s boot crunched over a broken bottle, he suddenly wondered what the fuck he was doing. But there was no way he could turn back now.

He halted a few feet away from the action. “Hey, leave him alone!”

The two men froze, then slowly turned their attention away from the youngster and towards Paul. His feet melted into the grubby street. The brick walls on either side of him loomed inwards. The thugs didn’t look like the sort of men you could scare away by waving your arms about. One was dressed in a leather jacket and had scars all over his vexed face – he stunk of prison and corruption. The other guy was wiry and looked like a rat. He was dressed in a cheap nylon suit and had a glint in his eye that suggested he’d happily garrotte anyone who interrupted his work.

Paul’s heart thrashed painfully in his ribcage. A future of suffering gripped his brain. The prospect of dying on Scott’s birthday made him feel treacherous – poor baby would be dealing with this every year from now on.

Paul tried to maintain eye contact with the thugs, but his vision was blurring all over the place. He glanced at the young man who was slumped in a pile of trash bags. It was hard to see his face because his brown hair flopped in his eyes and his nose was streaming with blood. He was gasping for breath – either because the thugs had winded him or simply because he was terrified.

Without taking his eyes off Paul, the leather-jacket thug reached behind his back. Paul’s bones zapped with fear as he saw the glimmer of a knife blade. The thug held the knife aloft. 

He spoke with a thick Eastern European accent. “Turn around and leave now and no one will get hurted.”

Paul rooted his boots firmly to the ground. With shaking hands, he reached around to his own back pocket and pulled out his mobile phone.

“
You
turn around and leave now, or
I’ll
call the police.”

Rat-faced thug sniggered. “You are not serious, are you? You think they’d come running just because of you call?”

Paul realised he had a valid point. The only thing to do was keep bluffing. “Yes, actually. I’m… married to the Chief Superintendent of the Metropolitan Police. If you leave now, I’ll be willing to turn a blind eye. Otherwise, it’s very easy for me to access the camera on this phone and email it to my husb… wife.”

The thugs scrutinised Paul, and Paul stared back, reeling with terror inside.

Rat-faced thug glanced down at the young man in the trash pile. “Lucky for you this time. You stay out of our turf, you get me?”

The young man cowered and nodded.

Rat-face turned to leave, but he collided with Leather-jacket. Leather-jacket pushed him, then Rat-faced shoved him back. They reminded Paul of Laurel and Hardy, which destroyed their credibility as hard-men. Finally, they managed to coordinate themselves and they jogged away towards the other end of the alley, then they disappeared around the corner.

Paul’s tense body unwound and he rushed to help the young man. “You okay?”

The young man’s fear turned to anger. “Do I fucking look okay?”

His ingratitude stabbed Paul hard. “Sorry. Come on, I’ll take you to hospital.”

“No, I can’t go to hospital. Just leave me alone!”             

The young man tried to stand up, but he grappled with the slippery trash bags, then he staggered woozily. Paul thrust out his hand to grab the young man’s arm, and he clutched Paul’s jacket to steady himself, before squatting back down again – abandoning standing for now. His nose was dripping with blood and his eye was already puffing up. His long hair was matted at the front, and stuck together with congealing blood.

Paul glanced away and grabbed a tissue from his pocket. “Here.”

The young man pressed it against his nose. It became drenched with bright red blood immediately.

“So what happened?” Paul asked. “You in trouble with the police?”

“No!”

“It’s okay, I’m not really anything to do with the police – I just said that to get rid of those two idiots.”

The young man glared at Paul through his hair. “I can’t go to hospital. I need to get out of here before they come back and finish me off!”

“Calm down; it’s alright. Just tell me why they were beating you up. I wanna help you.”

He relaxed slightly. “They don’t want me around. Said I was stealing their trade. Apparently they own this whole area and all the boys in it.”

“Are you a rent b –!”

“Don’t say it. No I’m not.”

Paul winced. “Sorry. Do you think anything’s broken? Any pain anywhere?”

“Pain everywhere. But no, nothing’s broken.”

The young man reached up a scuffed hand and brushed his hair out of his face. Paul’s heart squeezed. He was like a lost lamb. But there was a toughness behind those weary eyes. He’d obviously experienced a lot of hardship in his life.

“Where do you live?” Paul asked.

“Why do you wanna know that?”

“So I can take you home. My car’s parked in Wardour Street.”

“Listen, mister, if you wanna hire me,
you’ll
need to pay for a hotel room. My place is a shithole.”

“I don’t wanna hire you – I want to give you a ride home so you can get patched up. Now, where do you live?”

Anger flashed over his face. “I live in an abandoned derelict house, okay. I’m a rent boy and I live in a fucking shithole. Do you really think we’ve got medical supplies lying around?”

Paul gazed at him. “I’m sorry; I just want to help. How did you get into this situation?”

He shook his head wearily. “I wanted an education. Fat bloody chance! Now I’m stuck doing this with no fixed abode and no fucking future.”

Paul reached out and squeezed him on the arm. The young man’s black canvas jacket was dirty and his jeans were torn. “You’re doing this job so you can study?”

He wiped the blood from his lip. “You can tell me to get a proper job if you want, but believe me I’ve tried. If you haven’t got people who can take care of you in this city, you’re out on the fucking streets doing what you can to earn money to survive.”

“What’s your name?” Paul asked.

The young man gazed at him for a few seconds. “Edward.”

“Is it really?”

“Yep. And before you ask, I’m nineteen so you won’t go to prison for giving me money in exchange for sexual favours, don’t worry.”

Paul held his hands up. “I don’t plan to ask you for sexual favours, Edward. I’m a happily married man.”

“Yeah, they usually are.”

Paul chuckled at Edward’s cynicism. “Look, let me at least give you some money so you can get something to eat.”

Edward scoffed. “Money for something to eat? I’ve never heard it called that before!”

Paul chuckled. “I really
am
a happily married man – I just thought you might be hungry.”

Edward glanced down at the dirty floor. “I’d like that. Thank you.”

Paul plunged his hand in his pocket to pull out his wallet. He wasn’t sure how much cash he had on him, but even if he gave it all to Edward, it wouldn’t help him in the long run, would it?

Paul smiled sympathetically at Edward as he groped around in his inside pocket, wishing he could do more for the lad. His fingers gripped the little jewellery box, but his wallet wasn’t there. It must be in his trouser pocket. Trying to control his rising panic, he patted his trousers, but his wallet wasn’t there either.

“Shit! Some bastard’s nicked my fucking wallet!”

Paul glanced up and down the street, wondering what to do now.

“You must’ve been pickpocketed,” Edward said. “There’s a lot of thieves about.”

Paul focused back on Edward. “I can’t believe it – I was being so careful walking along. It’s not so much that I care so much about the credit cards – I can cancel those. But I’m gutted because I wanted to give you some money so you could stay somewhere nice tonight and recover from what just happened.”

Edward stared at him. “You were gonna do that for me?”

“Yeah. I’m really sorry, kiddo. I feel terrible.”

Edward cringed. “Me too… I’m not normally a thief…”

“What!”

Edward raised his hand, revealing Paul’s wallet. “I’m sorry.”

Paul reached out and snatched it back. He wanted stand up and walk away. But his stupid conscience was yelling at him that this young man was in pain – he was desperate and hungry. What would Scott do? He’d never leave someone in the gutter, beaten and bleeding.