Monday I featured an ad for Dodger's story, Pardon my Polari. Did you catch it? If that didn't get your interest, maybe this excerpt of the story written for the 2022 Anniversary Anthology will! 

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Michael is meticulous at covering his tracks, but certain aspects of his private life have aroused suspicion. It was only a matter of time before someone noticed.

“What happened?”

He shrugs. “Who knows? Apparently, someone reported me—a member of my own team, would you believe, but it’s just cackle. They have no evidence.”

“You didn’t need to come here tonight. We could have met up later at your latty.”

“Nonsense, I wanted to celebrate. I’m fed up with hiding all the time. Don’t worry; I made sure I wasn’t followed.”

That was going to be my next question, and I hate myself for thinking that way. I guess it’s self-preservation, but I pretend not to be bothered by the possible consequences.

“I’m not worried about me.”

“You will be if they find out.” He takes a drag of his cigarette and tries to compose himself. “I’m frightened. If I lose my job ….”

“You won’t. You just have to be careful and say the right things.”

“You don’t know what they’re like. They’ll keep digging until they find something or I slip up. That’s what usually happens. They’ve already searched my office and even followed me at lunchtime. As if I was going to troll the khazis on my break.” Michael rolls his eyes and hands the barmaid a ten-shilling note. “I’m sorry. I’m not being much fun tonight, am I?”

“It doesn’t matter. You need to get it off your chest” I look him in the eye and smile. “I’m glad you're here.”

Michael hands me my drink, and we clink glasses to celebrate a year together. It’s an important milestone for us, an achievement made even more difficult under the current conditions.

“I wouldn’t have missed this night for the world.”

Our anniversary will be a low-key affair. A couple of drinks under the guise of good friends before taking separate routes back to Michael’s latty in Kensington. It sounds crazy, but it’s easy to be paranoid even in a pub that welcomes our kind.

It’s Friday evening, and the place is already thronging with salacious young men, too many to be a coincidence. They come here to meet others like us, of the same persuasion, in a place that used to be safe, but not anymore.

We’re approached by someone we know and trust. Gerry was a tail gunner during the war and the only survivor from a Lancaster shot down in flames over France. He’s one of many war heroes now victimised by the country they fought to protect. It seems the politicians have short memories. The same Prime Minister who told us to fight on the beaches now leads a government intent on removing us from society.

“Careful lads, the homie in the corner is a sharpy.”

Gerry flicks his good eye towards the jukebox, where a young man is sipping a pint. He’s well dressed, nice-looking, and seems to be on his own—not unusual traits in this establishment—but Gerry has seen something he doesn’t like.

If he’s right, this man or homie is an undercover policeman or sharpy in Polari, and he’s probably not on his own. 

 

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