A Place To Live - 1. Their Story

Mukisa Okello ceased dusting the ornaments in No. 6 and peered out of the first-floor window. He didn't recognise the vehicle that was drawing up outside the retirement development. Was it someone new? Someone who'd stay and give him generous tips for helping them with their housework? More than one of the flats stood empty, though Mukisa remembered seeing people moving furniture into No. 8 the day before. He remained at the window, watching, squinting against the bright spring sunshine. After a minute, he opened it slightly so he could hear what was going on.

“Come on, Jack. We're here!”

Jack Hollingsworth grimaced at his niece's bright, mumsy voice. He wasn't one of her kids, sulking because she'd taken their phone away. Fortunately, he was in the car while she was outside. Not for long. The door nearest to him opened and a perfectly manicured hand appeared, fingers spread, waiting to be taken hold of. He didn't move. The hand went away, to be replaced by his niece's face as she bent down.

“Come along, Jack! We haven't all day to get you settled. Daryl needs the car back. I promised he'd have it by two at the latest.”

Daryl was his niece's second husband. Something big in advertising? Whatever … Jack didn't care. The hand returned, flexing with impatience. He spurned it. Instead he hauled himself out of the car slowly, persuading increasingly stiff joints to flex as they ought. He hadn't been to the gym in a long time. Not since Gabe fell ill. And then afterwards, he hadn't cared. No-one to keep fit for.

Jack straightened up slowly. He took the opportunity to inspect the bland, designed-by-committee building. An African-heritage face quickly withdrew from one of the windows. Perhaps the man realised he'd been spotted? Too young to be a resident. Maybe he was a care worker?

“OK.” His niece's voice had changed to her I'm-in-charge mode.

More than anything else, this infuriated him. He'd run his own life successfully – with Gabe's help – for more years than his niece had been alive.

“Everything was delivered yesterday by the movers and put in the places allocated. Daryl made time specially to check on his way home.”

He frowned. “My piano?”

His niece tutted. “No, Jack. How many times have we been through this? There's no room for even a baby grand here. And anyway, you wouldn't want to disturb the other residents, would you?”

“But …”

The months had gone past without him really noticing. Looking after Gabe when he was home, visiting the hospice, the funeral … Only very recently some of the fog had lifted. Jack wondered about the decisions taken during that time. How many would he later regret? The flat looked as though it might be one. When his niece suggested moving closer to where they lived, he'd said 'yes' almost out of habit. Things happened so quickly after that. … His beloved piano.

His niece pursed her lips in annoyance. “Jack, darling. Surely you recall the auction? You were there with us, at the front.”

Did he? Not the auction as such, but the house clearance, yes. Oh, yes. Adding to his emptiness, watching their combined goods and chattels being removed with only the bare minimum kept back. His niece thought it imperative the schedule kept on track. He never really gathered why there was such a rush. He was probably an item on her list, to be dealt with so she could get onto something more enticing.

He shrugged, not wanting to give her satisfaction of an answer.

His niece frowned. “It was the Thursday before the offer was put in on the house. You remember? Took us all by surprise. The estate agents couldn't recall the last time a place sold so quickly.”

Their home. His and Gabe's. A house and garden both of them loved. His eyes filled. He stood by the car – lost, bereft.

His niece tutted again. Jack wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. She opened the car boot and briskly removed the two suitcases containing his clothes and other personal items. Without asking whether he wanted to take charge of them, she wheeled the cases the short distance to the communal entrance. He stumbled along behind, still not sure it was for real.

“Where are your new keys, Jack?”

“Err …” He searched his pockets without success, then he found the keys in his beloved messenger bag.

'Manbag', Gabe always called it – and not in a good way, either. He'd always grinned back. It was capacious and stylish. What more did he need?

The keys were taken off him.

“Now don't forget you'll need this key …” His niece demonstrated. “As well as the one for the flat. OK? Watch while I open it.”

Jack's blood pressure rose. What was he? Some fucking shadow of a human being with no capacity to look after himself? With difficulty, he swallowed the incipient rage. She was only trying to be helpful – to ensure she discharged her familial responsibilities to the letter. He calmed down a little. … What was it about the road to hell?

He found a smile from somewhere. “I imagine it takes everyone here a while to find their way around.”

His niece smiled brightly back. Taking a suitcase each now, they entered the building.

“Here we are. It looks so much better with furniture in it. Compact and cosy.”

His niece stood in the middle of the living area, a self-congratulatory smile welcoming him in. Jack noted the low ceiling, the mean, small windows. He ignored her and made straight for the daylight. His heart sank. The view displayed the parking area and beyond that, the main road. A couple of struggling saplings and a patch of grass were the only vegetation to be seen. Finally, he dragged himself away, by which time his niece had moved into the kitchen.

“Jack?”

He rolled his eyes and sought calming thoughts. “Yes?”

“Come in here a moment, will you?”

With reluctance, he followed her into the small kitchen. Poky would be a better word. As he entered, his niece pointed at a round box attached to the ceiling.

“See? A smoke alarm.”

Only once had he left something on the hob to burn. Jack's nostrils flared. He'd fallen asleep on the sofa, worn out by the strain of caring for Gabe. Yes, the fire left scorch marks and smoke damage looked bad, but he'd put it out before the situation got any worse.

“Oh, and don't forget there are personal alarm cords or buttons in every room.”

“Yes, thank you. I did notice them.”

Jack grimaced. It was hard to avoid the bright emergency red amidst the sea of magnolia and beige. Corporate, risk-avoidance decorating, so bland it made him want to scream. As a graphic designer, he loved colour. And patterns. Some of his pictures would add spice.

He peered out into the living area. Where were they?

He turned back to his niece. “Why aren't any of my pictures up? They must've arrived with the rest of the stuff?” During the house clearance, he somehow managed to rescue his pictures.

“Daryl thought they'd be too in-your-face in a small flat. Some of the patterns did his head in. How do you live with them, Jack?”

He and Gabe were both fans of Bridget Riley and her op-art style. Jack loved trying to imitate some of her more eye-popping designs.

“I like them, and I'm the one who's living here.” His anger increased.

His niece flared up as well. “If that's all the thanks we're gonna get …”

Her phone rang. Jack saw her biting back the rest of the comment before she answered it.

“Yeah?” … “We're done, Daryl.” … “Yeah, 'bout on my way.” … “Jack's settled. As much as he ever is.” … “Bye.”

Jack and his niece glared at each other for a couple of seconds.

She gave way first. “As I was going to say, the pictures are in storage. They're some distance away though. Daryl won't have the time to go there 'til we're back from holiday. We're only doing our best for you, Jack.”

That phrase again. He nodded, not risking saying anything.

“Anyway, gotta fly.” His niece did one last look around. “Don't forget we're on holiday from Friday for three weeks. Tuscany. We'll call in when we get back.”

After a couple of perfunctory air kisses, she left.

He waited until he closed the door before he muttered, “Good riddance.”

He sunk into his favourite chair, tired now as he always seemed to be. How had he got onto the conveyor belt which had brought him here? His shoulders were rigid with stress and suppressed anger. Jack smiled to himself. It would be fine. He'd just go and play the piano for half an hour: that always cured his moods. … A strangled sob escaped. Why? Why had he ever agreed to it being sold? To stop the rage seeping through his defences, he recalled one of the best sessions of music making they ever had. Him and Gabe.

**********

“Come on, love! How much longer are you going to take getting that A-string in tune?”

Jack sounded the equivalent note on the piano yet again.

His husband looked up from his violin and glowered at him. “For your information, it's a new string, and I'm sure the wretched peg's slipping as well.”

He made a show of tightening the tuning peg.

Jack wasn't impressed. “Excuses, excuses.”

The mulish look he got back soon dissolved into a broad grin as Gabe thought of a riposte.

“You, of course, know exactly how to tune that beast to perfection?” Pointing to the grand piano.

“Me?” He smirked in return. “Yeah, of course. Every time.”

The fake confidence lasted for a moment or two before they both started giggling.

Shaking his head, he opened up his music, studied it briefly, and blew out a long breath.

Gabe heard. “You'll play it fine, sweetie. You always do.”

“Oh, yeah?” His eyebrows went up. “I manage to keep up by busking half of it. Franck must've had hands twice the size of mine. You're the one who makes this sonata worth playing.”

He saw Gabe put the violin down, carefully as always, and his husband moved to embrace him from behind.

“We're both getting older, J. I can't find the right glasses to read the music nowadays.”

Gabe reached down and captured his hands, removing them from the keyboard, examining each of his fingers. Jack peered back over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised high.

Gabe gave him his answer. “I love your hands. You know I do, J. Your fingers are the stuff of my fantasies. Slim, perfectly formed, oh so flexible…”

A seductive inflection on the last word made him snort. “Yeah … less so than before, I fear. Old age.”

“But more than enough to light my fire, sweetie.”

They kissed, then separated to get on with the serious pleasure of playing music.

Nearly twenty minutes later, they got ready for the last movement. Jack loved the opening. He led from the start, and Gabe followed on behind. The canon was the mirror image of their life. In matters financial and legal, Gabe was boss, often deciding their holidays, nights out, and food as well. Things where he didn't usually bother to have an opinion.

As the movement progressed, they were both in the zone – concentrating intently, feeling the music, and listening to each other as much as to themselves. They were one, creating music with as much passion as if they were making love. Two men playing with an intensity they rarely achieved – any musician achieved. Jack found himself managing passages in the piano part he'd previously despaired of. His fingers were ablaze. The joy and delight fed back into their music.

They reached the middle section. Jack revelled in the glorious sounds coming from his beloved grand piano. The lid was fully up – Gabe had to bite into the strings with his bow to match the volume when they were both playing loudly. He managed the stretches and figuration of the piano part like never before. There was a short period of calm, but soon they were both hurtling towards the finish. He and Gabe poured their hearts out up until the closing ecstatic violin trill and the final chords. It was done.

Jack's head fell forward onto the piano's music rest, his breath gasping. He could hear Gabe panting in the background. As he picked himself back up and turned to speak, his husband mopped the sweat from his brow with the sweater he'd taken off before they started.

“Holy shit! Where did all of that come from?”

Gabe grinned back. “Wasn't it amazing? Fucking amazing. I've no idea what happened, but I'll never forget it. Us. You. I've never heard you play that piano part with such fire.” He put his violin down. “Better than a little blue pill any day.”

He snorted. “Since when have you ever needed 'assistance'?”

Gabe shrugged. “Yeah … well.” His expression changed to one of desire and need. “Feel like putting me to the test?”

Jack got up to give him a kiss and a grope by way of a reply.

Their lovemaking was just as ecstatic, joyful, seemingly synchronised to perfection …

**********

Weeping, Jack sat in his armchair. He had no idea how much time had passed. Lost in memories. The best of times with Gabe were swiftly followed by the worst. His husband complained of feeling like something was stuck in his gullet, as if a piece of food was lodged and couldn't be shifted. After persistent pleas, Gabe made an appointment with a doctor. A diagnosis of oesophageal cancer soon followed. That was the start of the long journey which now left him there, in a soulless, cramped flat, alone.

After a while, he cleaned his face up. Life continued, and it had to be lived. Knees and back creaking, he hauled himself out of the chair. Sitting too long. It was time he got back to some regular form of exercise. Gabe was no longer an excuse. A glance at the clock showed it to be early evening. Had he really spent that long living inside his head? The flat was shadowed as the setting sun had long since moved away from that side of the building. He didn't bother to put a light on: the gloom suited his mood. What he did need though was sustenance. He'd eaten nothing since breakfast.

The small, cramped kitchen was a little lighter because its window faced in another direction. Jack opened a couple of cupboard doors at random: one cupboard was empty, the other full of crockery. Frowning, he tried another. Pots and pans. Their wok, a favourite of them both, was stuffed behind everything else.Was there no bloody food in the place? He yanked open the fridge door. Its pristine, empty interior looked brightly back at him. He was about to let loose a tirade of foul language when he recalled a conversation with his niece. The time she offered to do a food run for him, he'd snapped back that he was 'still as capable as the next man' of looking after himself. The offer hadn't been repeated. He sighed.

He couldn't face going out in a strange area to shop. The same went for the local takeaways – he had no idea which were worth patronising. Both required energy and concentration, something he conspicuously lacked. Jack got a drink of water, downed it in a couple of gulps, then decided to go to bed. A lonely, empty bed awaited just him and his thoughts. There was nothing else to stay up for. Tomorrow would be another day.

Mukisa Okello jerked awake, sweat pouring off him in the warm, stuffy night. It was the usual nightmare, the one that never quite went away. The small, packed inflatable boat, without power, and at the mercy of the elements. The people traffickers reneged on their promise and instead, left their human cargo to float, or not, in the Mediterranean Sea. Mukisa lay back, trying to still his breathing and his thumping heart, Usually, he awoke just as the sea overwhelmed him, filling his mouth, nostrils … Why? He didn't know. He was one of the few rescued and taken to Italy. Maybe it was the guilt for those who didn't make it? A rumour went around that the boat was leaking and many jumped overboard. They drowned before the rescue vessel arrived. He being too cowardly to leave, survived.

His mouth had a salt tang to it. Mukisa probed it with his tongue before remembering the slice of cheap, takeaway pizza he'd eaten the previous evening. Three years in the UK and he still missed eating cassava and millet. Even the peanuts tasted different. He got up and sat on the edge of the lumpy mattress. There wasn't a lot to survey. A tiny attic bed-sit in an unwelcoming, inner-city neighbourhood. A cool-box and a faulty two-ring hob were his kitchen. Hardly any green outside, and the pavements gave up the day's heat as he tried to get to sleep. The early-morning sun was creeping round to the skylight, his only window. Work called. He pulled on his clothes and after stopping for a quick drink, hurried down the stairs and out the shabby, battered door.

Jack sat at the table in the living room, nursing a cup of hot water for breakfast. It was like some extreme detox diet. Shaking his head, he continued writing out the list of what he needed. As it grew, he resigned himself to making several trips to the local supermarket. By bus, not car. That was another decision he'd have to revisit. There were car parking spaces for residents. Hell, he saw the wretched things every time he looked out of the window.

Snatches of his niece's voice started up. 'You won't need a car, Jack. The shops are so close.' Since when had he only used the car for errands? As their work lives slowly wound down, Gabe and he often went out for the day on impulse. For fuck's sake, he wasn't about to become a hermit. His niece again: 'Cars at your age are an expensive luxury.' What? He was still closer to sixty-five than seventy. Maybe he'd said 'Yes' just to shut her up. Whenever he wanted solitude in his grief, there she was, busily organising what didn't need it, her brisk, cheery tones grating on his soul. Jack sighed. He sounded pissed off by what she'd done. That was unfair. Gabe always got him to see the other side. She meant well but did everything to her agenda. No dissent allowed.

As he put the finishing touches to the inordinately long list, Jack's stomach let out a prolonged complaint. He needed to get moving. Levering himself up, the doorbell rang. He looked down at his sleep shorts and disreputable tee. He shrugged. Whoever it was would have to take him as they found him. On opening the door, he saw a middle-aged woman standing there. Her eyebrows twitched upwards before she'd managed to restrain them. He held his ground, not saying a word. He wasn't in the mood to be gracious, and he was starving.

“Mr Hollingsworth?”

He nodded.

“Good morning. I'm Wendy Clarke, the manager for the development. Welcome.”

“Hi.” Desultory greeting out of the way, Jack raised his own eyebrows in an unspoken question. He hoped keeping the woman out in the corridor would make her visit as short as possible.

The woman smiled briefly before continuing. “I hope you're getting settled in? This is just a courtesy call to remind you of various things …”

With the skill honed from many boring meetings, he zoned the woman out while keeping an attentive expression on his face. His thoughts went back to the list. Even the most urgent things would represent a big shop, but he didn't want to risk online ordering until he'd seen what the store was like. Anyway, he hardly had clients hammering on his metaphorical office door. For the moment, his time was his own.

A silence grew.

He hastily refocussed on the woman. “Sorry?”

“I said the ladies of the social group here would be so pleased to have another man onboard. If you were willing, that is?”

“Hmm …” Only if he were dead. “I do have my design consultancy to revive. I expect that to occupy my time. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some urgent food shopping to do. I've nothing in at the moment.”

The woman's expression changed to one of professional sympathy.

“Yes, your niece said you've been recently widowed. I'm sorry for your loss. It must be so awkward, taking on running things for yourself. Women can be so much better at some of the day-to-day tasks in the home, can't they? Now, our domestic help service …”

As she burbled on, anger rose up inside him without warning. How dare she? How fucking dare she? With difficulty, he swallowed it back down. He always did the cooking and the shopping. Gabe and he shared other household tasks. Thinking of his husband made tears come to his eyes. Jack stood there, willing her to stop. He didn't dare open his mouth.

Finally, she must have noticed. “Oh, and don't forget that lunch is served in the restaurant every day. Very nice to meet you, Mr Hollingsworth.”

With that, she left. He didn't say anything in return. Jack wiped his eyes before he went back inside to get changed.

Late one Thursday morning, Mukisa approached the door to No. 8. The newest resident did indeed require his services. Mr Hollingsworth. He said the name to himself twice, stumbling in a different place each time. He wasn't like the other residents with their fixed routines. Mrs Fairfax in No. 11 always wanted her flat dusted on a Monday, vacuumed on a Friday. Mr Hollingsworth didn't know what he wanted a domestic help for. 'There'll always be something' was his comment when Mukisa first met him. The older man chatted for the rest of the half hour. Nothing personal, just asking about living in the development and the other residents. He didn't gossip about the people he worked for – though there'd be plenty to talk about – he just talked generally. To his cost, he knew what rumours whispered from ear to ear could do.

He knocked. On hearing a brisk “Come in!”, Mukisa pushed the door open, dragging his trolley of cleaning equipment behind him.

“Morning, Mukisa.” The older man didn't look up from his computer.

“Good morning, Mr Hollingsworth.” Despite practising, he still got his tongue caught up.

There was a chuckle as the other man continued working. “Call me Jack, Mukisa. It's a hell of a lot easier.”

He blinked. Different again. None of his other clients allowed that.

He risked asking a question. “How did you know it was me?”

The older man looked across. “What? Just now, you mean?”

Mukisa nodded.

“Easy. I'm a musician. I heard you wheeling your stuff along the corridor before you got here.”

“Oh … err … What do you play, Mr Hollingsworth? Sorry. Jack.”

A sad expression appeared on the other man's face. “Piano. Only my grand was sold before I moved here.” He sighed.

Mukisa thought it best to get back to business. “What would you like me to do?” The flat looked clean and tidy.

“Ehm … Oh yes, there's a heap of ironing. It's still in the machine.” He pointed towards the kitchen. “Everything else is in the cupboard behind you. Thanks.”

Mukisa retrieved everything he needed and got down to work. After a short while, his client stretched in his seat, then closed the lid of his laptop.

The older man turned round. “Right. I'll leave you to finish off here, Mukisa, while I venture into the restaurant. I haven't got anything in for lunch.”

He continued ironing. “OK, Jack. Where would you like me to put your clothes?”

“I'll show you.”

They both went into the bedroom. He noticed a number of framed photos – both on the wall and the bedside table. At a glance, they all seemed to be of men. No women. His heart rate quickened. He was both listening to his instructor and dealing with his own thoughts. Might the other man be like him? He swallowed, trying to contain his excitement. Could it be possible?

“OK, Mukisa?” Jack looked at him. “Clear about everything?”

He dredged swiftly through what he'd heard. “Yes, Mr Hollingsworth. Sorry again, Jack.”

“Don't worry about it.”

Once back at the ironing board, Mukisa kept working until his client left. Putting the iron down, he returned to the bedroom. The lure of the photos was too much. The central picture on the wall was of two men, much older than him, at a wedding. Their wedding? It looked like it. One of the men was Jack Hollingsworth. He stood in front of it for a full minute, drinking in every possible detail. This was the stuff of his dreams ever since he knew who he was.

The reality he'd left in northern Uganda was so very different. Fleeing a lynch mob baying for his blood because a rumour went the rounds that he'd been seen in the company of a convicted homosexual. Mukisa sniffed back his tears. He hadn't known the young man, but his heart bled for a life to be spent in prison. He only managed to get away from Yambe with help from other hidden gay men, willing to put their freedom on the line.

Somehow, he would ask the older man the questions he needed answers to.

Moira Jones sat down with the other members of the social committee. She took her usual place towards the foot of the double-length table. Lunch on the last Wednesday of every month was their way of having a committee meeting. She never ate in the communal dining room at any other time. She found the food offered there expensive and institutional in presentation and content.

Fishing around in her handbag for a clean paper hanky, she didn't spot the new arrival until he'd come to a stop inside the entrance, looking for somewhere to sit. She took note. Tall, lean, and handsome, this had to be the new occupant of No. 8. He appeared quite youthful compared with the other male residents. Also, he was attractive. Well-groomed and wearing casual, good-quality clothes, he stood out. Moira dragged her eyes away before she embarrassed the poor man. She took a breath. Vivienne would have no such qualms.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man moving towards one of the smaller tables over by the windows. He didn't get there, being intercepted on the way by a petite, determined woman: Vivienne. Moira shook her head with disbelief. The woman possessed the hunting instincts of a lioness.

She delivered her prey to the table with the minimum of fuss. “I insist, Mr Hollingsworth. We like to welcome new residents when they first visit the dining room.”

If he replied, she couldn't hear it. Since when was that a policy? Plenty of other residents came and went without being singled out by the doyenne of the social committee. Vivienne probably had plans for him. After a parting smile, the man sat down opposite her. Close to, his face appeared tired, with lines that looked recent. Grief did that to you. Moira remembered the weeks and months after her husband died, though it was fourteen years since his passing.

She gave him a smile – genuine, without strings. “Hello. I'm Moira, from No. 12. I like to use first names. Hope you don't mind. I'm more informal than some round here.”

He looked up. “Hi, I'm Jack. The newbie from No. 8. Pleased to meet you, Moira.”

The word 'newbie' puzzled her. He sniffed at the aromas coming from the kitchen. His nose crinkled.

“What's for lunch?”

“Meat and two veg in one form or another. Except Fridays when it's fish. Wednesday means pork, or gammon occasionally.”

His eyes widened. “No salads, pulses, grains? Spices?

She chuckled. “No, nothing like that. They tried salads last year, but nobody wanted them. Probably because they could produce better ones themselves. I'm here for a meeting, otherwise I never darken their doors.”

“I didn't have anything in.” He grimaced. “I better make sure it doesn't happen again.”

He said it with a droll edge which made Moira smirk. “Yes, I'd agree.”

They shared a smile of understanding. She looked forward to learning more about her neighbour.

“Welcome, everyone.” Vivienne's voice carried easily from the other end of the table.

The vivid block colours of her dress and cardigan drew all eyes. Moira looked down at her own well-worn separates.

“Please take a moment to say 'Hello' to Jack Hollingsworth. He moved in to No. 8 a few weeks ago.”

He raised a hand in acknowledgement.

“I hope Mr Hollingsworth will become our newest recruit.”

Surprise and annoyance passed over his face, swiftly followed by a neutral expression. Moira gave an internal shrug. The other woman sometimes thought the force of her personality was enough to make things happen. She glanced up at the man opposite. Maybe he'd give Vivienne a run for her money?

He stood up and looked around the table before directing his gaze at Vivienne. “Hi. Your intro was nice, if somewhat unexpected at the end. I'm working on getting my design consultancy back on track, so my chances of helping you out aren't great. I'll happily listen in on this occasion and give you any feedback I might have.”

Moira bit her lip. Vivienne wasn't used to being thwarted. When her dining companion sat down, she lifted an eyebrow and got an amused half-shrug in return.

They ate the dried-out roast pork with difficulty. Neither the tasteless gravy or the apple sauce made it any more palatable. Conversation was sparse. The woman next to Moira took the opportunity to lean over the table and ask the newcomer a question.

“Did you live locally before coming here, Mr Hollingsworth?”

“No, 'bout thirty miles north, on the outskirts of Manchester.”

He wasn't keen on answering personal questions, Moira thought.

The other woman tried again. “I hear you're a widower?”

“Yes, I am.” He applied himself to eating the over-cooked veg.

“How long is it since your wife passed away?”

He paused eating and his jaw tightened. It looked more than the discomfort from being reminded of a death. She wondered what lay behind it.

He put his cutlery down and cleared his throat. “My husband, Gabriel, died from cancer at the end of last year.”

Silence descended on their half of the table. Moira glanced sideways at her companion. Her mouth was open in disbelief. She was surprised. Not that he was gay – she'd been around enough to take most things in her stride, but more that he'd been married. She reprimanded herself. If she'd been in his position, wouldn't she want to marry her partner as soon as it became legal? The other woman's husband stared at him. Moira knew he was hard of hearing.

“What did you say?”

Jack Hollingsworth sat quietly for a moment. She had the impression he held a gauntlet which he was ready to throw down in front of the assembled diners. As he turned to his questioner, she watched closely.

He spoke clearly, raising his voice slightly. “I was referring to my late husband, Gabriel.”

The man spluttered loudly. “What? Is he mad?” This alerted the rest of the gathering who stopped to listen. “He thinks he's a woman talking about her husband. The man's senile.”

“Is there a problem, Douglas?” Vivienne rose from her seat.

“Only that this fella's out of his mind.” He pointed at Jack to make it clear who he referred to.

“No, I'm not.” The newest resident stood up. “My husband and I were together for twenty-five years. I loved him with all my heart.”

“Disgusting!”

He paled. “It appears I'm no longer welcome here, so I'll take my leave.” He bent down to Moira and lowered his voice. “I hope we can be friends? That'd be good.”

She smiled. “With pleasure.”

After he left, everyone burst into comments and exclamations. Except Moira and their esteemed chairwoman.

Vivienne's voice cut through the noise. “Will someone tell me what has just occurred?”

Douglas answered. “It seems we have a queer in our ranks.”

For once, Vivienne didn't know what to say.

A couple of weeks after the lunchtime debacle, Jack sat at his desk working while the young home help did the ironing. He hadn't been hounded out or spat at, but the other residents gave him the cold shoulder when he was around the development. Moira was the honourable exception. It didn't bother him particularly except to reinforce the growing feeling he wanted to leave. Living without his piano was dismal, monochrome. He imagined the row that would result when his niece got to know. It would be worth any amount of recriminations to escape. Fortunately he still had control of his own money and investments. Even at the worst time, he'd roused himself sufficiently to see off the threat of a power of attorney. As each day passed, he felt more connected, more part of the world around him, good or bad.

He got up to make a cup of coffee. Partly for something to do, partly because it gave him an opportunity to look at the other man while he made it. Physically, he was nothing much to look at – thin, all arms and legs – but Jack sensed an enigma surrounding him. A story of some sort? His age was difficult to judge. Late twenties or early thirties would be his guess. The grace and efficiency with which the young man did the ironing reminded him of another, of Justin, from nearly twenty years ago. That young man's instrument of choice was his cello. Thinking of Justin stirred his blood, giving him the beginnings of a stiffy, the first in ages.

“Coffee, Mukisa?”

“Err …” The ironing didn't stop.

“It's no trouble.” He put the kettle on.

“Thanks, Jack. It's hot work.”

The flat was uncomfortably warm in the early summer heat. He went and opened one of the windows. Going back into the kitchen, he caught the tail end of a glance from the other man. Was there the faintest frisson between them? He had his suspicions. Nothing definite, more a sixth sense from being around gay men for decades. Mukisa probably didn't know how to ask, and he didn't want to embarrass him by raising the subject in case he was wrong. Many people of African-heritage backgrounds held conservative views on sexuality and gender issues. Which of them would move first?

Coffee made, Jack sat down at his desk once more. He ignored his laptop, instead staring into the distance. He and Gabe only encountered Justin for a short while, but the memory of that first weekend lived on. The young cellist came on to them in the bar after a chamber-music concert. As one of the performers, he had the job in the interval of going round, talking to some of the audience. They were both flattered that someone so youthful found them sexually attractive, but they needed time before committing themselves to anything.

**********

Gabe held the phone, ready to call the number. “Last chance to back out.”

Jack cocked his head. “I'm fine. You sure you're not the one with second thoughts?”

He got a sheepish grin in return.

“Sweetie, we talked this through. We agreed our boundaries. It's a kink we both want to try. One weekend of music and sex. You've discussed the arrangements with Justin and he has no problem with them. Fun and fucking, no strings attached.”

“No worries, babe.” Gabe smiled. “Yeah, I think it's a daddy thing with him.”

They both giggled.

“You said it. Doesn't bother me.”

“Did I tell you he is clean? He faxed through his latest test results, and we've got ours from the last time we were in London.”

“Great. I bought more condoms and lube the last time I went shopping.”

“OK. Let's do it.” Gabe rang the number. “Hi, Justin. Got your fax.” … “Looking forward to tomorrow. Trust you are too.”

On the Sunday afternoon, Jack sat in their music room, nursing a slight hangover. He listened to the others playing violin and cello duos. It was an easy lead-in to more testing stuff: a hack through the Elgar Cello concerto with him playing piano, followed by all three of them attempting Beethoven's 'Archduke' piano trio. He'd spent several hours practising the Beethoven in the hope of keeping up. Both he and Gabe were tired. The other man seemed as fresh as if he'd had a full night's sleep.

He recalled a long, sensuous evening lasting into the small hours. A light supper with plenty of wine, combined with wide-ranging conversation helped the barriers to come down. After they moved away from the table into the sitting room, things rapidly became sexier. They all shed some clothes and loosened others for the kissing, touching, and teasing. At first, Justin got all their attention to make him feel welcome, then it evened out. Some time later, they took it upstairs. It wasn't long before the three of them occupied the same bed, getting down to giving and receiving pleasure. When everything finally wound down, Justin went to sleep in the guest room. That was one of their rules.

Jack smiled. Erotic scenes paraded through his mind one by one, showing how his dick got a workout. And why his hole was so tender. He didn't look forward to spending the next hour or two sitting on a piano stool. It was a small price to pay. He hoped for a repeat that evening, though he might have to avoid bottoming. On the other hand, looking at the young man playing his cello, he wanted to take its place; to be there, between his legs, taking his young, vigorous dick up his arse again. Before he got too lost in his fantasy, the other two finished playing.

Gabe put his violin down. “OK. Your turn next with the pro. I'm looking forward to hearing the Elgar.”

He stood up, trying not to wince with the discomfort. Giggles from the others told him he'd failed.

He raised one eyebrow in Justin's direction. “You telling me last night had no effect on you?”

An amused shrug was his answer.

Gabe gave him a kiss as he headed for the piano. “Oh, for the recovery time of the young.”

“Says the man who doesn't bottom.”

Gabe smirked.

Their laughter continued until he sat down and needed to get control of himself. Justin re-tuned, then they set off into Elgar's wonderful, melancholic world.

**********

Their intense music-making continued until, hot and sweaty, they went out into the garden to cool off in more ways than one. The evening followed the same course as the day before, though the sex was less strenuous, and they concluded earlier. Gabe and he met up with Julian a couple of times after that. Then the young cellist announced he was serious about someone and the arrangement ended.

Gone but not forgotten. The alchemical mix of great music and equally great sex had never been repeated. It raised those few weekends far above any mere assignation or recreational fucking.

“Jack?”

He surfaced from his reverie and turned his head. It was Mukisa.

“Yeah?”

The other man appeared nervous. “Could I ask you something?”

Jack took a second. “Of course, Mukisa. I'm hardly busy with anything.”

When Mukisa arrived at No. 8 that morning, he'd made the decision to ask his questions. He no longer harboured any doubts about Jack Hollingsworth. For a short while, conversations overheard amongst the residents centred around the incident in the dining room involving him. A few questions in the cramped, staff work area confirmed what he suspected. Though he didn't like getting the information from gossip, he was glad. It would help him ask about those things he'd never dared ask of another.

The older man regarded him with a look of interest and attention. “Let's go and sit down over there. We'll be much more comfortable.”

“Err …”

“As long as you haven't got to be elsewhere?”

Mukisa shook his head and perched on the seat of an upholstered chair while the other man relaxed in its twin, his arms draped over the sides.

Before his courage melted away, he launched into the first question, keeping his eyes averted.

“Is it true you were married, Jack?”

“Yes.”

The answer almost sounded like a question. Not surprising as he hadn't properly finished the first one.

“To a man, I mean. Sorry.”

“Yes.” Once again, the direct, simple answer. “Does that shock you, Mukisa?”

He looked up. “No! No, not at all. It's what I want more than anything. … I … I am like you.”

“In what way exactly?”

Hadn't he just made it clear? He took a deeper breath. “I am a homosexual.”

The other man leant forward. “OK … I think you mean you're a gay man. Or even, queer.”

He frowned.

“Mukisa, 'homosexual' is a description often used by our enemies. It can be a label born out of ignorance and hate. That's not something you want to describe yourself as, is it?”

“So, I am 'gay' then?”

“Yeah. Like me. Only a lot younger, with most of your life ahead of you. … Is that part of the reason you're here? In the UK, I mean.”

He felt safe there, in the flat. “Yes. To be a gay man in Uganda is very, very dangerous.”

A hand took hold of his and held it tight.

“Are you happy with your life now?”

He knew the answer only too well. “I am very lonely. I work and eat, then I sleep. That is my life.”

His eyes stung with tears he never allowed himself to shed. The man opposite stroked his hand, offering comfort. They sat quietly for a moment or two.

The older man broke the silence. “You could do something about that. For a young guy like you there're plenty of apps which can help you find other gay men. In the city, there ought to be plenty of people to meet.”

Even he knew of their existence. Shamefaced, he produced his phone from out of his jeans pocket. Battered, ancient, it barely made calls or texts. He showed it briefly before hiding it away again.

“I have it so my employer can contact me. No internet. I need all the money I get for rent and food.”

Jack sat with his fingers steepled in front of him, the first pair stroking his chin thoughtfully.

“OK. I need time to think about you and your situation, Mukisa. My first impulse is to offer you a decent phone and plan with a reasonable amount of data included. But I don't know if you'd take it. An older, richer, white guy buying you a gift? Know it'll come without any strings. None at all.”

Mukisa sat there. Could that be possible? Other men offered help before he reached the UK, and they made it very clear what the price was. He shivered. Some people paid the asking price, only to find it got them nothing. Beatings, gang rape, and torture sometimes gave the victims what they sought. Other times they delivered death instead. What did he really know about Jack Hollingsworth? He weighed up his options. He still felt safe in the other man's company and he could hand the phone and sim back at any time. Jobs in the care sector were easy to find, and the other man didn't know where he lived.

“I'd pay the rental, of course.” The man shifted in his chair, keen for a reply.

He took the plunge. “Yes, thank you.”

“Great.” Jack looked at the time. “You'd better be off. Your next client'll wonder what's happened to you. Hopefully, I'll have the phone ready for you this time next week.”

As he stood up, he smiled. “Thank you, Jack.”

“It's my pleasure.”

“Bye. See you next week.”

He collected his cleaning trolley and left, his mind more clear and happy.

Later the same day, Jack knocked at the door of No. 12. Moira Jones answered it with a smile of welcome.

“Come on in, Jack, before I'm spotted consorting with an undesirable.”

She said it with a chuckle which made him grin in return. Moira was turning into a good friend, one with a sympathetic, listening ear. He'd already found himself unloading some of his frustrations, fears, and regrets.

They sat chatting, companionably drinking tea until he came round to the real reason for his visit.

“What do you know about Mukisa Okello?”

“Mukisa Okello?”

His heart sank a little. “The home help hereabouts.”

“I know who he is, Jack. If you're asking about his domestic abilities, you've come to the wrong person. I haven't the money to pay someone to do jobs I'm still perfectly capable of doing myself.”

“I'd agree with you there 'cept I can't abide ironing. No, it's more about him as a person.”

“Ah …” She took another sip of her tea. “I make a point of talking to Mukisa if I meet him in the corridor. And I'll admit to inviting him in for a glass of squash and a biscuit every now and again.”

They smirked at each other. More rebel behaviour.

“He's a very private man. I gather he rents accommodation in a Muslim-majority area of the inner city. Given he's on the minimum wage, I imagine his living conditions are poor. He told me he's single and he hasn't any relations to turn to. I asked him that because he worked all through last Christmas and New Year. He needs the money, apart from anything else.”

Jack compared his life with the other man's. “I'd like to help him.”

“Oh?”

He grimaced. It sounded paternalistic or condescending. “Between you and me, let's say he's cut from the same cloth as I am. Mukisa is a young man who hasn't had a good chance at life, I'd guess. I've been lucky and very fortunate in comparison.”

She reached over for a newspaper. “There's an article in here today about society and attitudes in East Africa. That Kenyan film which got banned has made reporters suddenly take notice.”

He nodded. “He was brave – and desperate – to make the journey here. It must've been a gruelling trip.”

“Poor man. It doesn't bear thinking about. Those people smugglers we hear of on the radio are nasty pieces of work, aren't they?”

As the conversation gradually moved onto other topics, he decided helping the young African would be a good idea, if the other man allowed him to assist.

Moira got up to clear away the tea things. When she sat down again, she cleared her throat.

“I hope you don't mind me asking, but why did you buy a flat here, Jack? You're not local, you're still self-employed, and you're more than capable of living in the real world. I think you'd be much happier there, as well.”

He looked out of the window, then back at her. “You're right, of course. Those first few months after my husband died passed in a blur. Exhaustion, grief, the absence of my love who guided me through life's decisions … I lost my anchor. Gabe looked after me, I suppose. It wasn't a bad thing, but when it came to standing on my own two feet, I found it easier to follow my niece's expectations. I went through a patch of not looking after myself properly and the family worried about me.” He rolled his eyes. “My niece, being full of good intentions, wanted me where I wouldn't be a trouble. Honestly, I was glad she decided things. What she decided was almost immaterial at the time. … I regret some of those decisions now.” He shrugged. “It sounds pathetic, I know, but I've grown up a lot recently. I've taken back control of my life.”

Moira smiled back at him. “Jack, even in this day and age, it's not unusual for straight married couples to be in the same position.”

“Yeah, I know. But I made my own business decisions?” He shook his head. “Anyway, I've now fully joined the adult world.”

“Do you have plans?”

Jack smiled to himself. The woman sitting opposite him was only a few years older, yet she sounded like a favourite relative, asking 'what now?' after he finished his degree.

“Yes, I do. Not so far along yet.” He neglected to mention some thoughts swirling round inside his head. Thoughts concerning himself, the young Ugandan, and some sort of symbiotic living arrangement. “I've started looking for somewhere to live, more in the country. I'm less mobile than I used to be, but I can still look after a garden. And I'd like a home that's more spacious than the broom cupboard I currently occupy.”

Moira chuckled. “That's what I mean. I'm happy here mostly. Settled. You're the opposite.”

He nibbled on a stray biscuit. “I shan't disappear for a while.”

“No? Good. You want to find the right place. Somewhere that speaks to you. A home with room for a piano?”

“God, yes. I can't believe how much I miss playing. It was my cure-all for all kinds of grumbles, sighs, and strains on my soul.” He stretched out his fingers. “They're stiff. I feel it all the time.”

“Plenty of scales and five-finger exercises to get you back on form. Don't forget to warm-up properly either, or you'll end up pulling muscles.”

His eyebrows asked the question.

A little sadness crept into her expression. “I taught piano at one time. My circumstances changed, and I had to sell my instrument.”

She too examined her hands. He noticed the tell-tale signs of arthritis in some of the joints.

She looked up again. “I'll be sorry to lose you, Jack. A new friend at my age is something to cherish.”

He smiled warmly. “Oh, Moira. Don't worry. My plans include buying a car as soon as maybe. It'll be my pleasure to chauffeur you to my new pad as often you'd like. And there's the phone, and email and the internet.”

He meant it. Her straightforward, caring acceptance of him and his problems shone brightly in his thoughts. Their conversation moved on to pianistic topics. It continued until he spotted the time.

“Unfortunately, I have work to do, including buying Mukisa his first proper phone. I want him to make connections, to find someone to make him happy.”

“Like Gabriel did for you.”

“Yes, indeed.” He stood up, moved over to give his friend a kiss on the cheek and left.

On a Thursday morning a couple of weeks later, Jack stood at the window, waiting for the young man to arrive for his scheduled cleaning session. He tried to make notes on the properties he wished to view, but his mind kept wandering. Mukisa concerned him. They met in the corridor at the start of the week. The other man almost totally ignored his greeting, only shooting him a look of aggrieved hurt as he passed. Try as he might, Jack failed to understand what he'd done to deserve it.

He heard the squeaky wheel of the cleaning cart as it approached. Instead of waiting for the usual knock, he opened the door in anticipation. It only took a few seconds for Mukisa's familiar figure to appear.

“Morning, Mukisa. I heard that dodgy wheel miles off. Needs some lubricant, doesn't it?”

His comment got no response. The other man entered the flat without saying anything. Jack observed him closely. He appeared upset – his eyes red from lack of sleep or possibly crying. He shut the front door. Whatever it was needed investigating. Before he had chance to open his mouth, he found a phone thrust into his hand.

“Here. You can have your phone back. I don't want it any more.”

Jack eyed the virtually new handset before returning his gaze onto the young Ugandan. He waited for more, not wanting to inflame the situation with an out-of-place question.

A mixture of anger and embarrassment predominated as Mukisa looked back at him. “Why did you give me such a thing?”

“To help you make friends.”

“Help me?!” His look of anger increased. “What 'friends'? Men who write and say such insulting, indecent things can never be my friends. Never. … Did you know this when you gave me it?”

He had little idea where Mukisa's anger came from. That his anger was real, he didn't doubt. “Let's sit down and have a quiet talk. I honestly don't know what's upset you so much, but I'd like to help.”

The other man turned and slammed things around in the cleaning cart. “I have work to do. You can keep your help.”

Gently, Jack placed his hands on top of the other's to make them stop. “No, Mukisa. We must talk. If I've done something to hurt you, however unintentionally, I insist on the opportunity to put it right.”

After a moment, the other man shrugged. He took that as agreement, however reluctantly given. He guided him over to the armchairs. They both sat down. The young Ugandan refused to meet his eye.

Jack held the phone on the palm of his hand, showing it like an exhibit. “So, tell me all. Everything.”

Haltingly and still keeping his eyes downcast, Mukisa started. “I was pleased. I found the app I needed. I joined: it didn't cost me any money. On my profile, I said who I am and where I came from. Then I looked for other men. That's when it started …” He gulped.

With a lurch, Jack remembered reading a couple of articles about racism and racial profiling on gay dating apps. Of course, it hadn't occurred to him when he handed over the phone. He thought he knew what the other man was going to say.

Mukisa snatched the phone back and prodded it into life. He watched as the young man navigated his way round. Already his fingers danced over the screen faster than his own ever would. Then he put the handset down again.

“First, I shall tell you what they said on their profiles: 'No cotton pickers', 'No chocolate', 'Not into black guys'. Those are the things I can tell you without shame. There were others. How do you think they made me feel? And there were so many like that.”

He handed the phone back. “Here, see what some of them sent me.”

Jack tapped the screen into life. He scrolled down the in-app messages. There were the inevitable dick pictures. Others showed men's backsides, parted to show their hole. These had messages attached. He skim-read through them: 'Do u have a big cock?', 'Will u b my bbc?', and more of the same. Gross racial stereotyping – every man of African origin was a Dom in the making with a huge endowment. He sighed.

Mukisa made him look up. “One man demands to see my … my snake. He sends me messages every day.” He looked at his crotch. “How is that a python?”

Yet more. He chewed his lip. “You must be able to block these people?”

The other man scowled. “What does it matter? It is no longer my phone.”

He sat, rapidly thinking of a way out of the mess he partly created. An idea came, but first he had to apologise, for him, and for the gay community at large.

“Mukisa, I'm so very sorry you've had these hateful, unwarranted things. Those people are prejudiced. They've read, or viewed, too much porn and their sense of reality is skewed as a result.”

“'Skewed'?”

“Altered for the worse. Let me delete the app. It won't stop you from rejoining in the future …”

A disgusted snort came from the man opposite.

He hurried on. “Then will you please take the phone back? Think of everything else it can be used for. I won't force you to, of course. As for you meeting possible friends, I have an idea. It would be a social event, a party, given by an old friend of mine. I'll have to talk to him first, though.”

He sensed the young man listening. A few seconds allowed him to delete, first, Mukisa's profile, then the entire wretched app. Then he held the phone out. Nothing happened.

“Are we still friends?”

The other man regarded him before reclaiming the phone. “How will you find me a friend?”

Jack noted his question went unanswered. He smiled wryly. “Not everyone I know is old, white, or lives in a place like this. As I said, I hope to get you an invite to a party. They start in the afternoon and continue for as long as …” He shrugged. “You can leave when you want.”

“How will I get to this party?”

“I'll come with you, Mukisa. To see you're OK.”

A pair of dark-brown eyes looked searchingly at him. He saw equal amounts of hope and distrust reflected in them. He decided to take a risk. How long since either of them had enjoyed any physical contact of any kind? Nothing sexual. Just touching another human being. He stood up, holding out his arms as if offering to pull the younger man out of his seat.

Warily, Mukisa allowed himself to be cajoled upright. Jack smiled and opened his arms out, making clear what he intended to do. If the other man stepped away, that was his choice. Instead, he remained where he stood, waiting as he approached. Enveloping him in an embrace, Jack put as much warmth and comfort into the hug as he could. He imagined offering support to a son he never had. The young Ugandan kept still until his body started to shake. Jack tightened his arms around him, using his hands to stroke the young man's back. Sounds of sobbing emerged from the head buried against his shoulder.

They stayed like that for some time. Eventually the crying stopped. Jack risked kissing the tear-stained face where he could reach.

Now was time to ask his question again. “Friends?”

The nod he got was all he needed.

Soon after, on a lovely summer's evening, Jack sat in the deserted general lounge on the ground floor of the development, waiting for his video-call request to be accepted. He liked looking out at the communal garden. Most people were either in bed already, or they were still outside. Moira, he knew, kept early hours. His continuing pariah status would ensure no interruptions. He hadn't spoken with Clive for well over a year. Not since Gabe's troubles started. They were good friends, but Clive preferred to avoid distressing situations.

His laptop alerted him the call was now live. He shuffled round in his seat until the camera got a decent view of his face.

“Jack, darling! How are you? You're looking positively debonair, sweetie.”

Just hearing the other man's voice made him smile. “I'm well, Clive. Thanks. Much improved.”

He watched as the slightly femme, middle-aged face on the screen changed expression from surprised delight to concerned sympathy.

“Gabe's death truly shocked me, dear thing. And you? You sure you're OK?”

He shrugged. “I've been through the mill, but I'm in control of my life now. … I'm sorry the funeral was private. I couldn't cope …”

“And having a crowd of queens descending from all over Manchester would've been the final straw? We understood, sweetie.”

Jack tried to smile through a sudden film of tears. “You're sweet, C. Now I'm back, I'll organise a memorial service for later in the year. Everyone will be welcome.”

“Ooh! With food and drink? I do love a good nosh afterwards.”

He chuckled. Clive was irrepressible. “Yes, I'll provide a good spread. Maybe I'll allow you to nominate your favourite queer caterers.”

“I'll hold you to that.”

Already, the renewed affection between them both made him happy. He still had his request to make.

He took a breath. “D'you still hold your famous pool parties, C?”

“Excuse me, darling?” The staged affront made him hide a grin. “My parties are legendary. They're a highlight of the queer social calendar. Planning on making a reappearance, sweetie? You and Gabe are missed.”

He hadn't thought about the party from his point of view. He made a snap decision. “Yes, I am. But the main reason is to introduce a young friend of mine. Mukisa is a refugee from Uganda who's finding it hard to make friends.”

“Tell me more.”

“He's had a bad experience using dating apps, so I promised I'd find a way of making it easier for him to meet some people. You always mixed things up at your parties, C. You still doing that?”

“Yes, of course. No racism allowed here. Handsome, interesting, sexy men come in all colours of the rainbow. And all ages.”

The image on the screen smirked at him. He rolled his eyes.

“Darling, I never lie. You're completely edible.”

“Yeah. We'll see.”

Nobody at Clive's parties took any notice if couples – or more – disappeared for a time. Several upstairs rooms were suitably stocked and the showers never ran cold. He found the idea of being there without Gabe unnerving. Was he ready to have sex again? He didn't know.

He noticed Clive's head moving as if to peer behind his own head, trying to make out the background.

“Don't tell me this is where you live now? Looks like a fucking nursing home.”

He winced at the accuracy of the guess. “Yeah. After Gabe's death, I moved. …” He explained the upheavals of the previous few months.

“God, darling. So, you're cooped up with a posse of bigoted hets?”

He shrugged. “Well, it'll be immaterial soon, C. I'm planning a move to my own house and garden again. … I hope to come to an arrangement with my Ugandan friend.”

“Don't leave me hanging, sweetie.”

He snorted, then took the plunge. “I have more income than I need already, and I hope to get my business back on its feet. Gabe and I never had the opportunity for kids until a time when we felt we were too old. So, I hope to fund Mukisa through college – or an apprenticeship – in exchange for him helping me around the house. We'll keep each other company for a while.”

“You've read too many of those tedious Victorian novels.”

His eyebrows shot up.

“You know, a live-in companion. Like those women who existed to be at the beck and call of some old trout.”

“Hardly.”

“You're not after his arse, then?”

“What? That'd be weird.” His cheeks turned faintly pink. “No, we'll help one another.”

“Has he agreed?”

“Not yet. In fact, I've still to mention any of it. An invitation to your next party is my preferred opener. So … When is the next extravaganza?”

“There's only another three scheduled. It's Manchester. You know there can be as much water out of the pool as in it, and once the weather's turned, I stop.”

They both sniggered. Manchester was hardly Florida or California.

“How about the next one? It's in a couple of weeks time. If your friend enjoys himself – which he should – that'll give him opportunity to visit again. Before I have to pack everything away.”

Jack grinned at the glum expression on the screen. “Thanks, C. You're a true friend.”

“Don't I know it. Bye, sweetie. See you soon!”

After blowing kisses at the screen, they ended the call. Now he had to get Mukisa on board.

Jack left his car jammed in between two others on the grimy, inner-city street. Bought that week, his worries about scratching the car's pristine paintwork almost caused him to panic. Fortunately he listened to the parking sensors and used his eyes. The area was almost devoid of green stuff – only the occasional stunted tree evident. He looked around, noting the tired, cramped housing stock. From the number of letter boxes adorning some of the walls, many of the houses had multiple occupants. He wondered which one Mukisa lived in. The young man's trust didn't extend to giving him the address. The local mosque dominated the skyline. Its painted dome and minaret gleamed in the sun. A quick glance at the passers-by confirmed Moira's description of the area as having a population largely derived from the Indian sub-continent.

He was due to meet the other man in a local halal takeaway. Mukisa's territory, not his. He hoped that would put them on a more equal footing. Two minutes brisk walking brought him to the shop. For a moment, he stood outside the bare, none-too-clean eatery. The food didn't tempt him at all. There wasn't much that could go wrong with coffee. Or chai even, if they offered it. His 'date' sat at one of the small, chipped tables. He went in.

Mukisa chewed at his fingers in turn while he waited. He worried the place was shabby and the food poor. Not what the older man expected. A sticky sweet pastry sat on its plate in front of him. His stomach rebelled when he took the first bite. Why he felt so nervous, he didn't know. The door opened and this time, Jack entered. His tall figure dressed in well-tailored, casual clothes struck him as out of place. Not wrong. Different, drawing all eyes in that direction.

The other man spotted him. “Morning, Mukisa. It's good to see you away from Sunset Towers.”

He sat down on the grubby plastic seat opposite, his long legs sticking out the other side of the table.

Mukisa made himself smile. “Hello, Jack.” He picked up his phone for something to do, then thought how rude it was and put it back down. Even after a few short weeks, the new phone felt part of him. He smiled again, for real this time. “I am glad I have this now.”

“Good. Your texts made finding this place easier.” Jack pointed at his bright orange drink. “That taste OK?”

He looked at the half-empty, scratched glass. “No. Not really.”

“Ah.” The older man got up and went to the counter, coming back shortly with a cup of black coffee. “Looks drinkable.” He took a sip. “Blech. Stewed.”

They both sniggered and paid no more attention to their drinks.

Jack leant forward, resting his forearms on the table. “OK … We both have an invitation to my friend's next party in Manchester. His name's Clive, by the way. It's in a week's time. Sunday.”

His eyes widened. “So soon? What shall I wear? I have nothing – only these.” He pointed at his cheap jeans and second-hand tee.

The other man smiled. “I feel some shopping coming on. Nothing fancy or expensive, just a few new things to brighten up your wardrobe. Oh, and some swimwear, perhaps?”

His face felt hot. “I have no money to buy these clothes. And why must I have 'swimwear'?”

“Oh, I forgot to say. It's a pool party. You don't have to get wet. Many people do, though. Look, let's call whatever we buy a final apology for my earlier mistake. Yeah?” Jack looked at him hopefully.

After a moment, he nodded. New clothes were a luxury.

Jack smiled. “OK. We'll settle a time for that later. The other guests will be a diverse bunch. I'm sure you'll find a friend or two among them. Clive doesn't stand for any nonsense. Anybody making a pain of themselves won't get invited back.”

Mukisa's heart beat faster at the thought of a friend, someone to share thoughts, hopes and fears with. Another smile appeared on his face, mirrored by the one opposite.

“I would like that.”

The other man shifted on the hard seat. “There's another thing, Mukisa. I have an idea I'd like to share with you, something which'll involve both of us.”

He sat there, staring, listening. His excitement increased. To hear better, he moved forward in his seat.

Jack took a moment before continuing. “I made a mistake moving into the flat. I'm not happy there. It took me a while, but I've decided to move out.”

Mukisa's spirits sank. “Oh …”

“Let me finish before you say anything, Mukisa. This is just the lead-up. I've found a place which I like, some distance away. It's large, with a nice garden, and there're decent transport links.”

Puzzlement got the better of him. “What has this got to do with me? Why do I need to know of your plans for a big house?” He felt the other man mocked him.

“Mukisa, please?”

He settled down, trying to control his tongue.

The other man rubbed his nose. “Maybe I started this in the wrong way? OK … I'll cut to the chase. My husband and I never had the chance to raise a family. We discussed other ways of helping young people reach their full potential, but it never came to anything.” He stopped to take a sip of the revolting coffee. “Then you came into my life – young, gay, and trying to make something of yourself. Do you want to be a domestic help for the rest of your working life?”

He shook his head. “I want to be a nurse.”

“Good. Here's my idea. I would agree to support you while you're studying: accommodation, food, paying your fees. In exchange, I'd ask you to live in my house and help me with day-to-day household tasks. We're friends, and I think we'd get along well and learn from each other at the same time. You'll have your own part of the house and you'd be free to have friends over. My hope is we'd keep each other company. Being lonely is hard.”

He knew that only too well. Mukisa sat still, playing back what he heard. It sounded too good. There had to be a catch.

He looked up. “What are these tasks?” He wouldn't be anyone's servant. And at the back of his mind, a thought lurked that sex might be one of the tasks.

Jack opened his hands out. “I've yet to drill down that far. I imagine you'd help out for a fixed number of hours a week. Things like doing the washing, ironing, cleaning. I would pay all the household bills and for our food and so on. In no way am I employing you. You'd be free to leave at any time with the minimum of notice, and I'll guarantee to continue paying your fees. I see our arrangement more as mutual support. I want to live somewhere with space, but I know that emptiness might be oppressive.”

“Nothing more?”

The other man frowned. “What do you mean?”

He took a breath. “As you said, I am a young gay man. I think maybe you …”

“No!”

The force of the single word took him by surprise. Others in the takeaway looked round. They must look an odd pair.

Jack noticed. When he continued, his voice was back down to its usual restrained level. “No, Mukisa. We are friends. We're not going to be fuck buddies. I'm not out to groom you or take advantage of the situation. OK?”

“Yes, Jack.”

“One last thing. I'll make sure you have your own money. An allowance. You might think you could work your way through college, but nursing will be a full-on course, I'd guess. … That's my idea. I'm not expecting your answer now, but I'd appreciate it soon.”

Mukisa sat, trying to take it all in. 'Thank you' wasn't enough, but he said it anyway. “I need time to think. I will tell you after the party. Is that OK?”

The other man shifted to get his phone out. “I'll send you the estate agent's blurb and some photos I took. In the meantime, maybe see which nursing courses are within a reasonable distance?”

Somehow, they both knew he would accept. Was the delay just so he could save face? His cheeks felt hot again. He nodded.

The two men got up, leaving their drinks behind, and left.

The following Sunday, Jack and Mukisa stood on Clive's doorstep, waiting to be admitted to the party. Even though he and Gabe attended regularly until the time of his husband's illness, he was nervous. He felt free when they went as a couple – no pressure, no awkwardness. If they decided to hook up with someone else, they did so as a pair. No separation, no tensions. Was he too old to attract much attention? In some ways he hoped that turned out to be true. He told himself to expect chats, good food, drink, catching up, and nothing else. Over the past year, sex as a necessity faded into the background. Only recently had he felt stirrings.

Looking to his left, he saw the other man chewing at his fingers. Mukisa had more reason to be nervous perhaps. Would this be his first party as a gay man? Almost certainly. He smiled and got nothing much in return. Reaching out to the side, Jack took hold of a hand and squeezed it. That got him more of a smile.

“You'll be fine. Allow yourself to enjoy whatever happens. You don't need to hide anything. Everyone here is like you in one essential.”

His companion smartened up well. Neither of them wanted to arrive wearing shorts. Mukisa sported a pair of multi-coloured patchwork trousers topped by a plain tee. The colours stood out against his skin. Jack wore things more suited to his age. Party stuff, nevertheless.

At last, the front door opened. Clive stood there, curiously dressed down for the occasion. He held his arms out. “Darlings! How wonderful! Welcome to my humble abode.”

Jack sniggered. The house was anything but. Nothing pretentious, just large, spacious, and with a substantial garden. “Greetings, C. Aren't we going to see you in your full glory?”

“What do you mean?” He batted his eyes as he looked down at his geek chic. “Not today, darlings. I did a show last night and I'm simply exhausted.”

Jack smiled and indicated his companion. “This is my friend, Mukisa.”

Clive gave him a once-over, much to the young Ugandan's discomfort. “Ooh … Aren't you gorgeous? So this is your protégé, Jack? Very nice, I must say. You, sweetie, are going to be very popular.”

Jack heard a quiet “Hi.” in reply, and nothing else. “C, darling, how about showing us where things are? Then you can announce us to the assembled throng.”

“Excellent idea, sweetie.” Clive turned on his heel. “Follow me!” He set off into the house, holding one arm as if it brandished a tour guide's umbrella.

Mukisa stared at the vast, shiny kitchen. Was this all for one person?

Beside him, Jack smacked his lips at the sight of all the finger food waiting to be eaten by the party guests. “Up to your usual standards, C. Good, very good.”

“I have my reputation to protect.”

Mukisa wondered if he could sneak some of the food away to eat the following day. And maybe the one after that as well. The riot of colours, textures, and scents made him stare.

Their host continued with the tour. “The drinks are in the lounge.” He turned to Mukisa. “The bar's free, but I expect you not to get legless. My cleaner objects to cleaning up vomit, and so do I.”

He blinked. He couldn't remember the last time he drank beer or anything else alcoholic.

“You're very quiet, sweetie.”

He cleared his throat. “Ehm …”

Jack rescued him. “It's all very new. Give him a few minutes, C, then he'll be fine.”

They continued through the lounge. Several of the men greeted Jack. He felt eyes on him all the time. They came to a pair of open glass doors. 'French windows', he corrected himself.

Clive stood on the threshold. “And here, darlings, is the beating heart of my little gathering.” One arm invited them through.

Mukisa saw numerous men grouped close to and in the pool. Some were playing around in the water, others were chatting and laughing. A quick glance was enough to show him several guests who weren't white. His nerves calmed down.

With a flourish, Clive announced them. Most heads turned, if only for a moment. He spotted a small group of young men throwing a ball around. He could do that without any problem. Before he headed in their direction, he turned to tell Jack. The older man stood a few yards away, chatting to others as if he only saw them last a week ago. Mukisa straightened his shoulders. If he wanted to enjoy the party, he needed to join in.

An hour or so later, Jack headed into the kitchen in search of food. He ate breakfast early and they didn't stop for lunch on the way. His craft cider needed anchoring with something. He stood at the table, surveying the spread of mini-sandwiches and quiches.

Another guest appeared at his elbow, plate in hand. “I recommend the blinis, though there's not many left. They're fantastic.”

He recognised the faint Scottish accent immediately and turned. “Tommy! How wonderful!”

Plates and glasses temporarily abandoned on the table, they hugged and kissed. Then the two men took a step back and examined each other.

Jack looked with affection at the younger, bearded man. “You're wearing well, Tommy.”

“Excuse me! So I should be: I'm nearly half your age.”

“Don't remind me.”

The other man got his shot. “Looking good, Jack.” He paused. “I'm so sorry Gabe can't be here with you. I remember our times together upstairs with pleasure.”

Mention of his husband still made Jack tear up. He wiped his eyes, but the moisture still dripped slowly down his cheeks. He cleaned up again. His throat seized up as he started to speak. “I … I miss him dreadfully. Gabe made me whole.” He tried to smile. “Yes, we both loved our sessions with you.”

The other man gave him a hug before they turned back to the food. Plates full of nibbles, they stopped to pick up their drinks.

“Do you mind if I ask you something, Jack?”

He shrugged. “No.”

“Did you and Gabe ever consider taking a third into your relationship long-term?”

He smiled. “We discussed it once, before we met you. Gabe said it would make the internal relationships too complex, and anything that threatened us as a couple was out. I agreed. I don't know how thruples work. Do you?”

“No, not at all. Some arrangements hang together apparently.” Tommy hesitated. “Jack, I still have the hots for you. No pressure, but if you're ever interested, we could hook up sometime?”

His cheeks turned pink. “Tommy, you're adorable. Bigger, stronger, but at heart still so sweet. Thank you.”

They kissed over their plates.

“Think about it. Yeah?” Without waiting for an answer, he left, leaving Jack standing there, his mind in a whirl.

Their sessions together were fun – he and Gabe playing around with an attractive, versatile partner. They both regarded Tommy with affection and the three of them hooked up most times at Clive's parties. They never met elsewhere. The thought of having a one-on-one session felt different, though it made his dick twitch. As he wandered back through the lounge, Tommy caught his eye. The knowing glance made his dick chub further. He quickened his pace, keen to get outside into the fresh air.

Mukisa sat by the pool with the same group of young men he approached earlier. They welcomed him easily and he joined in their game. Now they sat drinking, eating, and chatting. He contributed little. Their talk centred around various social media apps – updates, photos, news – anything that happened in their world. He had yet to join any of them. The phone would make it easy, but he was wary after his first experience. He continued to explore the apps, as much as he could when he wasn't a member.

Then one of them, Aaron, sat up straight and waved his phone around. “Listen up, guys! Some bastard's just used the n-word against me on my dating app.”

Mukisa paid attention. The speaker bristled with as much anger as he displayed in the encounter with Jack. Experience wasn't all, then.

“Wanker! Right, he'll find I'm no walkover. If he tries it again, I'll report it to the cops.” He turned to Mukisa. “You have these things happen as well, mate?”

He took a moment, knowing many pairs of eyes watched. “Yes. I joined an app a few weeks ago. I didn't know anything.” He continued by listing the same examples he gave to Jack.

An excited discussion broke out. Sympathy, concern, anger – emotions which made him part of the group. He was no longer an outsider. It felt good.

Clive spent some time wandering from group to group, being a good host. Then he sat under the canopy, keeping a close eye on everything. He watched the young African guy ease himself into one group. He nodded: those guys were a good choice for a beginner. They rarely did drugs or drank to excess, and they knew about boundaries and consent.

Next, he sought out Jack. His old friend looked happy, chatting and eating, though he noticed Jack's gaze stray often in one particular direction. His glances were returned with interest by Tommy Stoner on the opposite side of the pool. He knew Tommy had a thing for older guys, and as he thought back, he remembered him hooking up with Jack and Gabe. So, were they going to discreetly disappear soon? Few things surprised him about the gay universe. He saw Jack adjust himself. He smirked. Jack was still an attractive, sexy man. Shrugging, he turned his attention elsewhere.

Half an hour later, he noticed Jack sauntering in his direction. Clive waited until he was close enough not to raise his voice.

“Having a good time, sweetie?”

The other man smiled. “Yes, C. It's a tonic. Talking to people. Catching up. Wonderful.” He took a moment. “Are your rooms available as usual?”

His eyes widened, though it was hardly news. “Bien sûr, darling. You know where they are. The doors lock. If someone's forgotten, that's their problem.”

Jack indicated Mukisa. “Would you …?”

“He's getting along fine. I'll keep an eye on him while you're … occupied.”

The other man flushed slightly. “Thanks, C. I haven't felt this way in a long time.”

“Life's there to be enjoyed.” He leant forward to offer a kiss.

Jack accepted and kissed him back. “I had to be reminded. Now I'm wiser.”

Clive waved him away. “Don't keep him waiting, sweetie.”

Jack woke from a short nap disoriented – strange bed, strange room, curtained daylight. It took him several seconds to piece things together. Then an arm wrapped itself round his waist from behind, and its owner's beard scraped against his collarbone.

“Welcome back, babe.” Tommy's hand moved lower. “Ready for more?”

He sniggered quietly. “I'm hardly some randy teenager with an ever-ready supply of cum.”

He turned round to face his fuck-mate. His neck didn't rotate as far as it used to.

Tommy's hand resumed its ministrations. “I think you've got another one in you. My hole hasn't been that well fucked in years.”

“Flatterer.”

The younger man kissed him. “No. I don't exaggerate, ever.”

“Yeah.” He turned onto his back and stared at the ceiling. “I'd love to bottom for you, Tommy, but I'm so out of practice. I wasn't expecting this.”

“You've still got it, babe. Don't think otherwise. OK … how about we blow each other?”

His dick stiffened. “That would be nice. We'll have to take it in turns though. I'm not supple enough to go down on you while you blow me.”

“We could work it out, but it's whatever you want.”

“You're very sweet, Tommy. I'll do you first, I think.”

As they rearranged themselves and he took the other man's dick in his mouth, Jack felt no guilt, only a surge of sadness at Gabe's absence.

Early the following morning, Jack drove home, a sleepy, slightly hungover Mukisa in the passenger seat. Coming from a longer distance than most of the guests, Clive offered them beds for the rest of the night. Not the ones used for the party fortunately.

He looked sideways. “Made your decision, Mukisa?”

The young man sat up. “Err … Yes, I have.”

“And?”

“I shall take up your offer, Jack. You are my friend and you are so kind.”

That was the answer he wanted. “I'm pleased. I'll put an offer on the house as soon as we get back.” And he'd give his niece the tidings.

They smiled at each other. “Here's to our future.”