Pardon My Polari - 1. Chapter 1

"It would be a mistake to think we are giving a vote of confidence or congratulation to homosexuality. Those who suffer from this disability carry a great weight of loneliness, guilt and shame. The crucial question...is, should we add to those disadvantages the full rigour of the criminal law?"

British Home Secretary Roy Jenkins speaking in the House of Commons during the official parliamentary debate to decriminalize homosexuality in July 1967. Scotland and Northern Ireland opt-out, but the legislation becomes law in England and Wales, marking the end of centuries of persecution.

Forty-five years later, the government begins issuing pardons upon application to anyone convicted of consensual homosexual activity under the now-abolished laws.

*     *     *

September 2012.

Mad? Perhaps, who knows? Who gets to make these decisions anyway? If people must categorise me, I prefer eccentric. Mad carries more sinister connotations. Someone dangerous or of loose mind, but I am neither. I pose no threat to anyone—except perhaps, myself.

I overthink things. I know I’m guilty of that, and this is probably a good example. Best just to let it go. She means no harm, yet as hard as I try, I cannot clear my mind of this hearsay. Idle gossip hurts, even after all these years.

I’ve seen this woman in passing a few times. She frequents the village shops and likes to talk, but other than that, I know little about her. Not enough to pass judgement, yet she sees fit to do it to me, and not in small measure.

“Stay away from him. He’s mad.” I hear her quite clearly whispering to her two offspring while pushing them towards the counter, as far away from me as the cramped confines of the corner shop will allow.

I pretend not to notice. Lord knows why. Perhaps I feel the need to save her from the embarrassment she surely deserves. But in truth, I can see no point in trying to converse with people who are not worthy of understanding me. Let them talk. Their malicious tittle-tattle cannot cause me any physical harm nor slander me any more than I have already endured.

Her warning is intended only for the ears of her young children and saves her a somewhat awkward explanation of what she’s really thinking. At least in their innocent eyes, I am only mad, so maybe I should be grateful. If offered the choice, I will gladly take insanity over perversion.

Dirty old man has been a popular label for me among the more persistent accusers who reside in this rather quaint little village hidden deep in the English shires. It’s a vile tag commonly used to describe a particular type of sexual deviant—men who are stereotypically rain-coated and loiter in children’s play areas.

The term doesn’t apply to me. I’m not the monster they profess. I don’t prey on their kids or harbour any desires or lewd thoughts appertaining to them. Children are the sweet and innocent voices I hear from my sitting room window. Their laughter brings me joy and brightens an otherwise dull and dreary house for so long bereft of meaningful conversation. But there’s no physical attraction. I’m gay. I like men—grown men, and I find it insulting to be labelled a paedophile.

At least the shopkeeper offers me a courteous smile as he breaks from his conversation with the poisonous woman and hands me a copy of the Daily Telegraph. In exchange, I drop three coins into his upturned hand and mumble my gratitude before turning towards the door. It’s a daily routine and an excuse to leave the house, but I rarely read more than the headlines or delve deeper than the crossword.

Loyalty to an old employer. It makes little sense, yet I still buy the rag even though it stopped printing news years ago.

A quick smile at the two bewildered young boys brings a look of disdain from their sour-faced mother, who tightens her grip around their scrawny necks and stands her ground. She looks ready to defend her offspring from the advances of an evil predator, but I’m past caring. I no longer have the time or inclination to save their wretched souls. They can figure it out for themselves, although I know they never will.

It's a steep incline from the gate to my front door and a daily bane for the postman. He sees me crossing the road and waits by the stone wall. Today I can spare him the arduous journey to my letterbox, and his relief is palpable.

“Two letters for you today, Sir,” he says. “One’s a gas bill, I’m afraid.”

I’m not concerned about the gas bill; it’s the other one that interests me—the one in the nondescript manilla envelope with no markings or return address. There’s nothing to give it away, but I instinctively know what it is.

I give the postman a broad smile and place the letter with the gas bill in the inside pocket of my jacket.

“Thank you, young man. You’ve just made my day.”

“Good news?”

“I certainly hope so.”

The postman looks confused as I pat him on the shoulder and give him a saucy wink. I can still do that even at my age. Perhaps the woman in the shop was right about me after all.

I return home to Spencer, my best friend and only companion. Like his owner, he’s a little old in the tooth and sometimes struggles with the stairs, but his loyalty never wavers. He lifts his head from his wicker basket and makes the obligatory journey to the door to greet me with a wagging tail.

He can read me like a book and senses my excitement as he follows me along the tiled hallway snapping at my heels like a spritely young puppy. I ditch my jacket and newspaper in the lounge, and for a moment, we defy our ages, prancing through the house like a pair of old fools. It’s been a long time since this place has witnessed such frivolity, and I’m like a kid again as I sit at my desk, out of breath.

The gas bill is thrown to one side while I concentrate on opening the letter of interest, relishing a moment that is long overdue.

I’m right, of course. Inside is a simple and very formal letter from the Home Office confirming my successful application for an official pardon. I no longer have a criminal record. It’s been disregarded—erased from all but my own memory.

I read it through twice and place it on my desk. It’s not a surprise. After the recent legislation, they can no longer deny me. Finally, the law is on my side, yet even after such an overwhelming public admission of culpability, there’s no hint of an apology.

I expected more than a few meaningless paragraphs that barely scratch the surface, but bizarrely, it’s the insensitivity that pleases me the most. The words are carefully chosen and deliberately lacking in empathy. I know how much it pains the bureaucrats and pen pushers in Whitehall. It’s like getting blood from a stone; they hate admitting they were wrong and do so begrudgingly and only as a last resort. In this case, it’s at the behest of a government struggling for re-election, but I’m not too stubborn to refuse.

I’ve waited fifty-eight years for this moment, but as sweet as it is, I’m unsure how I should feel or what possible difference it could make to an old man and a life already lived.

I stare out the window towards the village hall as the euphoria recedes—replaced by an almost tired acceptance that nothing ever changes. How could it?

My crimes—if you can call them that—happened long ago and were duly and wrongfully punished with incarceration. Nine months in Her Majesty’s Prison, Wandsworth, alongside petty thieves, rogues, and other undesirables who, encouraged by some twisted logic of social conditioning, looked down upon the likes of me with venomous distaste.

To be considered unworthy by such villainous men who would think nothing of slashing another man’s throat with the jagged end of a broken bottle opened my eyes to the vast inequities of the justice system. Better to be a violent killer, armed robber, or a loathsome vagabond picking the pockets of the working class than dare to love another man.

I am undeniably jaded, and who can blame me? Tainted by a lifetime on the run. Like a harried fox desperately fleeing a pack of bloodthirsty hounds. The laws may have changed, and now I have an official pardon, but I still feel like a prisoner, even when surrounded by such opulence.

My mind is awash with memories stirred by this simple letter—some of them quite painful, others make me smile. Faces of friends and foes, lovers, and acquaintances, most of whom, I suspect, have already passed from this world.

Among them is Michael, the man whose youthful face still stares at me from above the fireplace in the living room. I can’t help wondering what he would have made of this pardon.

My eyes are watering. After everything I endured, it feels almost anti-climactic; even Spencer is no longer aroused by my good news. He licks his paw and rests his head on the tiled floor while I lean back in my chair and close my eyes.

*     *     *

August 1954.

After years of war and austerity, Britain is enjoying an economic boom. Low unemployment, an end to rationing, and a steady increase in living standards are reflected in the busy pubs and clubs of London’s West End. But for some, it’s a period fraught with danger and hostility. The Home Secretary, Sir David Maxwell Fyfe, has promised to eradicate homosexuality with ‘a new drive against male vice’ designed to ‘rid England of this plague.'

I’m whisked away to a busy place thick with tobacco smoke and loud with raucous laughter.

The Prince Regent in Covent Garden is a popular and commodious public house frequented by office workers, market porters, theatre-goers, and dilly boys. Michael is waiting for me at the bar. He’s twenty-four, handsome, and like most of the men in this establishment, he speaks in Polari.

“Bona to varda you.”

“You too, my dolly filiome.”

“You're too kind, ducky. What’s your bevvy? The usual or something a little more saucy?”

“A vera, if you don’t mind. Let’s leave the sauce for later.”

We laugh, but we’re careful not to touch or get too close. It’s a practised routine adhered to by all but the foolish, but it’s completely unnatural and requires a level of self-control incompatible with anyone in love. I’m longing for physical contact, and I suspect Michael is too.

Tonight, he looks especially desirable, and I’m not the only one watching as he leans across the bar to flag the attention of the buxom young barmaid. My man is tall with short dark hair parted at the side and rosy, dimpled cheeks that give away his tender age, but I can tell something is troubling him.

“They’re investigating me at work,” he says before lighting his customary cigarette and enveloping us in a cloud of smoke.

Michael doesn’t need to elaborate. I know what he means. He’s a messenger at the Admiralty—a job he’s held since he left school—but lately, the civil service has come under intense scrutiny. The government has labelled homosexuals a security risk, and anyone suspected faces a witch hunt in the form of an internal investigation. The process is every bit as intrusive as the name suggests and is carried out by a team made up of ex-police officers who harass and hound their victim until they find enough evidence for him to be dismissed. It’s particularly distressing for the person concerned, and many of them jump before they are pushed, terrified by the prospect of having their dirty laundry exposed to friends, family, and colleagues.

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. They usually operate in pairs acting as agent provocateurs to entrap unsuspecting men looking for a sexual partner. Trolling is a dangerous game. It’s easy to be fooled, and the consequences can be life-changing. You don’t need to be caught in the act anymore. Propositioning this man will get you nicked for solicitation, a criminal record, and six to eight months behind bars depending on the judge and any previous convictions.

“Just my luck,” says Michael. “I can't escape these people.”

“We can go somewhere else if you want?”

“No, I feel safer here. At least I know who they are. Thank you, Gerry. What would we do without you?”

Gerry gets a warm smile from my man, which makes him blush before he hobbles off to spread the word. He’s part of a growing sub-culture sprouting from the West End in response to the relentless persecution. There’s safety in numbers, and despite the presence of sharpies, we're better off here than in any local pub.

Michael and I aren’t likely to proposition the sharpy, but we’re still in danger, and I can see him watching us as I order another round of drinks and stare defiantly back. The gin has warmed my stomach and given me some much-needed Dutch courage.

“Let’s change the subject. I won’t let him ruin our night.”

Michael agrees and offers me a timid smile, but it’s his steely blue eyes that I find difficult to resist. They’re filled with expression and fixed on mine as he raises his glass.

“I hope you're not trying to get me drunk.”

I object. “Not too drunk.”

“Not too drunk to trade, you mean. I’m never too drunk for that.” He laughs and lights another cigarette. They help him to relax, and the pleasure he gets from the tobacco is evident as he fills his lungs and slowly exhales. I enjoy watching him smoke, and I’m envious of the benefits, but my asthma prevents me from taking it up.

It’s still early, but I’m already looking at the clock. I won’t be able to relax until we’re on our own, and his flat or latty in Polari is the only place we can go.

Michael winks at me. He looks truly stunning in a light-grey suit with a blue silk tie. Resisting the desire to hold him is the most difficult task I have ever endured, but the sharpy keeps me focused.

To escape his attention, we move around the bar, where we bump into a couple of friends. Roland is a high-end tailor from Savile Row, and Jack is his twenty-one-year-old, long-suffering apprentice. It’s just a ruse, of course, to fool the police and another byproduct of the draconian laws that have turned us all into enemies of the state.

They ask us to join them in a booth where there’s more privacy, and Jack is quickly dispatched to get another round of drinks.

Roland isn’t surprised to learn about Michael’s investigation.

“It’s happening all over,” he says. “The banks are doing it too. I’m thinking of leaving the country. A friend of mine has moved to Amsterdam. He says it’s much easier there.”

I’m surprised. Roland has a successful business in London with an impressive clientele.

“What about your customers?”

“They don’t care about me; why should I care about them?” He leans across the table to whisper. “I’ve run my tape measure down some important inside legs in my time. Judges, politicians, royalty. I’ve seen all their carts and quongs, but I doubt if any of them would lift a finger to save me.”

I look at Michael. “You see, it’s not just you. No one’s safe here anymore. Maybe we should move abroad.”

Roland insists that Amsterdam is the place to go. “They all speak English, and it’s not too far away. Let me know; I have a lot of contacts who can find you a place to stay.”

“It sounds exciting, but I would have to leave my job.”

Michael elaborates. “Anthony’s a journalist. He writes for the Tooting Gazette.”

It’s not his intention to belittle me, but it’s still embarrassing. The Gazette is a small local paper that survives on advertising, and Tooting is not the most fashionable area of London.

The silence is interrupted by Jack, who returns with a tray of drinks. “I’ve heard of the Tooting Gazette.”

Other than Michael and me, he’s probably the only one in the pub, and I suspect he’s only saying that to be kind.

“He’s very good,” adds Michael. “It’s only a matter of time before he gets a job with one of the big broadsheets.”

I appreciate his praise, but my man is unashamedly biased, and I find it difficult to share his optimism. Michael isn’t motivated by money, but he makes enough for it to be inconsequential. He can afford to rent his own flat, and nights like these aren’t a problem. In contrast, my paltry wages are often spent before I open the packet, and I don’t have enough money to buy another round of drinks. It’s a problem that’s exacerbated when another friend decides to join our little party.

Freda is a small but rambunctious Scot who doubles as an erotic dancer at a Soho strip club. She’s good company, but her Glaswegian accent makes communication between us all but impossible, so I head to the khazi.

I’m feeling tipsy as I stand in front of the trough, looking straight ahead. I don’t enjoy peeing in a public lavatory, and I’m angry when someone decides to stand too close. A quick glance to my right startles me. It’s the sharpy from earlier, and he smiles before starting a conversation.

He says he’s from Leicester and this is his first week in London. I don’t believe a word.

“Why did you come down here?”

“Have you ever been to Leicester?”

“Can’t say I have.”

I’m a bag of nerves as I zip up my fly and leave to wash my hands, but he joins me at the sink jostling elbows with me as bold as brass.

“Well, you're lucky. There’s not much there for someone like me. So I came down here to find work.”

This sharpy is very convincing, and he’s even better looking up close, or maybe I’m drunk. I decide to play along as we leave the khazi together.

“Had any luck?”

“Yes,” he says. “I met you.”

I roll my eyes. “I mean getting a job.”

“Oh. Yeah. I’m working at the Royal Opera House. This was my first day.”

I laugh. “Give us a note then. What can you sing?”

“I’m not a singer. I work in the box office, selling tickets.” He fumbles in his pocket and pulls out two for tomorrow’s performance. “Do you fancy a night at the opera?”

“Blimey, you're not slow, are you? But I’m not like that.”

He laughs. “Like what?”

“I’m not the type of man you think I am.”

We stop at the bar, and I study his face. He has an infectious smile and sounds genuine. Maybe Gerry was wrong about him. He shakes my hand and introduces himself as Larry.

“I know you're omepaloni. Most men in here are.”

I’m surprised to hear him use Polari, but the sharpies are beginning to pick up a few words. So, I test his knowledge.

“My bencove thinks you're a sharpy?”

“Do I look like a sharpy?”

“More like a dilly boy to me. I’ve never varda a sharpy with such a dolly eek.”

He laughs. “You’ve lost me, I’m afraid. I only know a few words.”

It’s not the answer I’m looking for, leaving me undecided. My instincts tell me to keep away from this man, but when I see him ogling the barman’s butt, I’m convinced he’s telling the truth. Maybe Polari hasn’t reached the midlands yet, so I give him the benefit of the doubt.

“If you're here to troll, you're wasting your time with me. I don’t do that kind of thing.”

“Well, at least let me buy you a drink.”

“Sorry, I’m with bencoves.”

“I know; why don’t you introduce me? Making friends isn’t easy in London. Lots of people, but everyone’s so rude.”

“It wasn’t always like this. You can blame the government. I’ll have a Vera Lynn if you insist on buying.”

He buys me a double, and I watch him down a pint of strong ale before a worried-looking Michael joins us.

“What are you doing?” He’s angry as he grabs my sleeve and pulls me away from the bar.

“Wait! Larry isn’t a sharpy, are you Larry?”

“No.”

“He works at the opera house, selling tickets. Show him, Larry.”

He hands Michael the tickets, but he’s not impressed.

“Anyone can buy these.”

“And he drinks like a bloody fish!” I rest my case with the final irrefutable evidence.

Larry nods and starts laughing. Everyone knows that sharpies aren’t supposed to drink on duty, but he can just about stand up as I introduce him to our friends or bencoves in Polari.

They’re reluctant to lower their guard to a stranger, but Larry is too good-looking to ignore and too drunk to be a danger. He talks about his life in Leicester and his problems meeting other men. Then wins them over with a round of drinks.

There’s something about Larry that makes me want to be his friend, but not in the way I think he would like. I’m devoted to Michael and itching to get him home, but my lover is in the mood for a party, and when the landlord rings the bell for last orders, he invites everyone back to his latty.

Roland and Jack are more than game. They’ve become quite flirty with Larry, and there’s an energy between them that even Freda can detect. She wants to tag along, but I’m certain her presence won’t be appreciated, and she’s getting no joy out of Larry, who ignores her subtle advances.

Larry’s having the time of his life, and he seems to have sobered up a little as he stands in the road and flags down a cab like a seasoned pro. Something about that bothers me, but I’m too drunk to give it much thought.

We’re almost safe, and my man looks delectable in the back of the darkened taxi as the streetlights flicker across his smiling face. Roland and Jack sit opposite, and Larry is on the other side of me, bubbling with excitement. I wonder if this has ever happened to him in Leicester.

Michael’s flat is small but cosy and spotlessly clean. There’s a record player in the living room, and Roland is keen to hear Dean Martin. He’s brought a bottle of wine from the pub, and Jack grabs some glasses while Larry lights a cigarette and makes himself at home in the armchair

We’re more relaxed now than in the Prince Regent, and Roland’s mannerisms are quite effeminate as he sips his wine and snuggles with Jack on the settee to the sound of ‘Memories Are Made of This.’

Michael’s a good host. He hands out ashtrays, plates of jarry, and more booze that he finds in the cupboard before reminding his guests that he has neighbours. He doesn’t care what they get up to as long as they’re discreet.

“I don’t want sharpies showing up at my door.”

Everyone shares his sentiments, but Roland will ensure things don’t get out of hand. He waves us away and fills his glass while I direct Larry to the khazi. He’s in there for a while, and I’m starting to worry.

“He’s had a lot to drink. Maybe it’s finally caught up with him.”

I’m not wrong. Larry is looking very drunk. He’s bouncing off the walls and almost falls on top of Jack as he tries to grab his coat from the floor.

“I have to go home.”

Roland and Jack look disappointed, but Michael is relieved, and I’m tasked with finding our new friend a taxi. Even in Kensington, it’s not easy to get a cab to take someone as drunk as Larry, but the moment we’re outside, he assures me he’s okay and lights a cigarette.

“I’m not really drunk,” he says. “It was just an excuse to leave.”

“You don’t need an excuse. You can leave whenever you want.”

“Yeah, I know, but I didn’t wanna hurt anyone’s feelings. Your friends are nice, but I think Roland and Jack were expecting something else.”

I’m surprised by Larry’s naivety but London’s different from Leicester. I’m guessing he’s got cold feet, and I don’t blame him. Roland can be a little decadent at times.

“If you don’t feel comfortable, it’s probably better to go home.” I wave my arm at a cab, but Larry grabs my wrist and presses his mouth over mine.

We’re in the street, and I panic and push him off.

“What are you doing?”

“Sorry, that was a little presumptuous of me.”

“More than a little.” I’m licking my lips and holding him at arm’s length, but he thinks it’s amusing.

“I know you like me. You’ve had your eyes on me all evening.”

“It’s because I thought you were a sharpy.”

He laughs. “Maybe I am. I’ve got a flat in Islington. Come back with me, and we can play cops and robbers.”

His voice is creepy, and it makes me shiver. “Fuck off, Larry. I’ve had enough of your games.”

I manage to stop a cab and walk away.

“Don’t say I didn’t give you a chance.”

I’m unsure what he means by that, and I’m relieved to see the taxi pull away with Larry blowing me a kiss from the open window.

He’s crazy, and I’m not sure if I want to be his friend. London seems to attract his sort. I should know this by now.

When I return, Roland, Jack, and Michael are still drinking and smoking like troopers. My eyes are stinging, and Dean Martin is making me tired. I signal to Michael and go to his room to lie down, but it’s Larry who’s on my mind.

It’s gone one o’clock when Michael sneaks into the bedroom and gently closes the door. He’s trying not to wake me, but I haven’t been asleep. He’s drunk and struggles to remove his clothes. When he sits on the bed, I grab him around his waist, making him jump.

“Take off your kaffies and let me reef your dolly dish.”

Michael giggles as he falls back against my naked body. “I’m glad you're still awake.”

He’s very submissive and doesn’t resist as I remove his blue silk tie and hang it around my neck as a trophy.

“I like this.”

“It looks good on you.”

He needs my attention, and I’m keen to please. His hands are all over me as we slide between the sheets and press our bodies together. He’s suffocating me with his love and pulling me closer until we’re locked together as one in the most intimate way possible. There’s nothing dirty or sordid about our lovemaking and nothing that can possibly make me feel ashamed.

I’m exhausted and giddy with sex as Michael sits on the edge of his bed and lights a cigarette. In the next room, Dean Martin is still singing, ‘Memories Are Made of This.’ It makes me laugh; Roland has played that song to death.

Michael lies beside me and places his ashtray on my chest. “I think I’m going to lose my job.”

Even in the dark, I can see his eyes glistening with tears, so I put my arm around him and gently rub his shoulder.

“You don’t know for certain.”

“I do. They won’t stop until they get me. They’ll find out, and then you’ll be in trouble too.”

“In that case, why don’t we leave? I’ve been thinking about what Roland said. You know, about moving to Amsterdam.”

“Are you serious?”

“Why not? I mean, why wait to be caught? I’m fed up with hiding all the time. We could find a small flat there, and then every night will be like tonight.”

I can tell Michael is thinking seriously about it, and that’s all I want. He doesn’t make rash decisions.

“We’ll have to do it properly. I mean, legally, I’m not going to risk being sent back, and we’ll have to get jobs. You might not get to be a journalist.” He dogs his cigarette in the ashtray and puts it back on his bedside table.

“And you might not get to be an admiral.”

“I’m not even in the bloody navy, silly!” he protests as I drag him back into the warmth of his bed and smother him with kisses. I want this moment to last forever, but we only have a few seconds.

I can hear banging and muffled voices. It sounds like it’s coming from upstairs. Michael sits up in bed as it gets louder.

“Someone’s trying to get in!”

Now there are people in the living room. I can hear Roland shouting and swearing and things being knocked over. It sounds like they’re fighting. There’s an almighty crash, and the wall shudders as I climb over Michael and jump out of bed. There are voices outside our room, so I pull on my pants and grab Michael’s bedside lamp. Then the bedroom door flies open, and two uniformed police constables enter. Michael shouts as I hurl the lamp at them and swing my fists, but they grab my arms, and I’m overpowered and bundled to the floor. I’m yelling at them and trying to push them off me as I’m punched repeatedly on my back and head.

My ears are ringing, and my face is numb, but I can still hear Michael.

“Leave him alone, you fucking bastards!”

Everything is happening so quickly, but there’s nothing I can do to stop it, and I can’t think straight. I lift my head to see Michael lying face down on the floor. He’s still naked, and a policeman is kneeling on his back. This can’t be happening to us. It doesn’t seem possible.

I’m curled in a ball as another punch connects with my head, and a steel boot in the middle of my back makes me howl in pain. I can taste blood as I’m lifted to my feet and told to dress, but the moment they let go, I fall back to the floor.

Michael is yelling. There’s a scuffle, and it sounds like he’s giving them hell. I can’t move to help him, and my vision is clouded with blood.

A policeman cleans my face and helps me to get dressed. He’s kind to me and asks me if I’m okay. I shake my head and spit blood into my hand. I want to die.

I pull on my shoes, but my hands are shaking, and I’m unable to button my shirt before being handcuffed and led out into the living room. I’m the last to arrive and judging by how Roland and Jack look at me, I must be in a bad way. Michael is dressed and sitting in the armchair. He’s crying, and it makes me angry. I grit my teeth and try to get to him, but I’m dragged back and punched again in the back of the head.

Roland yells. “I’ll report you for this. You fucking bastards. This is police brutality. I’m well connected. You're gonna be sorry!”

I’m confused. It’s like a bad dream. How did they know? Who let them in?

Then I see Larry. He’s standing just inside the front door, smoking a cigarette and talking to a constable. It takes me a few seconds to piece it together; then, I want to be sick.

Our eyes meet briefly before he turns away—too embarrassed or ashamed to look at me.

“You're a piece of shit! I’ll get you for this.”

He ignores me, but I remember his words from earlier. ‘Don’t say I didn’t give you a chance.’

As we’re led outside, Roland leans forward and gobs into Larry’s face. It’s a shocking reaction from someone so gentrified but entirely justified.

Larry recoils and wipes the spit from his face with a handkerchief, then looks at me and steps back, maybe expecting the same. I want to follow Roland’s example, but I’m as dry as a bone, unable to create enough saliva to swallow.

We’re detained in separate cells, and they won’t allow me to see Michael. The next time we talk is on the phone after we’re released. He tells me Roland has been to see him and is on his way to me.

Roland turns up at my door. He won’t speak on the phone because he thinks it’s being tapped.

“I’m leaving tonight,” he tells me. “I know a bloke with a fishing boat. He charges two guineas to the hook of Holland. I’m not staying here to be sent to prison.”

He asks me if I want to go with him. I don’t think he wants to go on his own, and Jack and Michael have already said no. I’m not sure. It sounds permanent. I know I’ll never be able to come back. My mother is standing in the hallway behind me. I think she knows the score. I bite my lip and turn him down. Then watch as he jumps into a waiting car. I think that will be the last time I see him, but my mother is pleased and holds me in her arms for the first time since I was caught. She’s over the initial shock, but I know I’ve disappointed her.

*     *     *

April 1955.

I’m one of several inmates crowded around a small radio in Wandsworth Prison to listen to the news. The Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, has resigned because of ill health. It was his government that put me here, so I’m not sad to see him go.

I’m halfway through a nine-month sentence for gross indecency and resisting arrest. Jack got six, but Michael didn’t go to prison. He chose instead to undergo a course of anaphrodisiac drugs, which lower testosterone and will reduce his sex drive—a process commonly known as chemical castration.

It’s irreversible and a decision that I find deeply disturbing considering our love for each other. I haven’t heard from him since our trial, and I don’t expect to see him again.

Wandsworth Prison is a horrible, foul-smelling place. Sexual acts between men are commonplace, but there’s zero tolerance for convicted homosexuals and no place to hide. I face constant verbal abuse and occasional physical attacks but thankfully, so far, nothing serious.

I try not to think about what happened because I know there’s nothing I can do to change it, but I’m often consumed by thoughts of revenge. If I ever get the opportunity, I know I will have no qualms about killing Larry, which scares me.

Murder is still a capital offence, and the condemned cell is at the end of our block adjacent to the execution chamber. No one has been hanged yet during my stay, but the gallows are kept in good working order, and once a month, I hear them testing the trapdoor.

I pass my time reading anything I can get my hands on and writing obsessively. I’m on friendly terms with a couple of the screws who provide me with pens and paper, which I put to good use by writing a journal about my life in prison.

It’s an honest appraisal of a world that bears little resemblance to life on the outside, and I try to be as candid as possible without naming names. Every week I send an instalment disguised as a letter to my old editor at the Tooting Gazette, and I’m surprised when he writes back and asks for my permission to publish them.

It’s the day before my release, and the Gazette has published all twelve articles I sent. Nothing has been said, so I assume that no one from the prison service is aware of what I’ve written. It doesn’t say much for the Gazette’s readership, but it’s probably for the best. My final piece is a scathing attack on an outdated and corrupt penal system in dire need of an overhaul.

In reflection, my time behind bars was a deeply disturbing, painful, and humiliating experience that I should never have been made to endure. I leave Wandsworth scarred but not broken and determined to somehow clear my name.

*     *     *

August 1955.

I’m back at home with my family, but their attitude has changed now they know of my affliction. They regard my sexuality as an illness that they are determined to help me overcome by whatever means necessary. This is a common belief propagated by ignorant politicians on the advice of academics who should know better, but I have no time for such nonsense.

My old boss at the Tooting Gazette is more accepting. My prison journals have boosted the paper’s sales, and I’m finally rewarded for my hard work. The payment I receive for these articles is enough for me to spread my wings and rent a room in Brixton.

My landlady, Mrs Jenkins, is a war widow and, I suspect, a quite lonely woman not much older than me. At first, she isn’t comfortable having a convicted criminal as a lodger, but she takes pity on me when I explain my crime.

“I don’t think you're a real criminal,” she says. “Not the type of person who will want to rob me.”

She’s right, of course. I have no interest in her possessions, only a roof over my head as I struggle to piece together what’s left of my life.

I rent the first floor of her small terraced house on the condition that I have no overnight visitors, but my social life is almost extinct.

*     *     *

October 1955.

Fourteen months after my last visit, I make an impromptu return to the Prince Regent. I’m on my way to an interview at the Daily Telegraph in Fleet Street, so I pop in for something to calm my nerves.

It was a good move. The editor likes me, and he’s impressed with the prison articles I wrote for the Gazette. I’m offered a retainer and hired on the spot. It seems Michael was right about my potential. At last, I’m a journalist working for one of the big broadsheets. It’s the unexpected fulfilment of a childhood dream, and I’m back in the Regent to celebrate.

“Bona to varda your dolly eek. I thought it was you.” It’s Gerry, and he’s pleased to see me. “You look smart. New drag and riah.”

He’s complimenting my new clothes and haircut, but my Polari is a little rusty. I tell him why I’m dressed up, and he insists on buying me a drink.

“I’m happy for you. The pen is mightier than the sword, my dear fellow. Perhaps you can do some good in Fleet Street.”

“I’ll certainly try. What’s the latest cackle, Gerry?”

There’s a lot for him to tell me, but he knows I’m only interested in Michael.

“I haven’t seen him in a while. Maybe six months. You know he lost his job?”

“I guessed he would. I hope he’s alright.”

Gerry’s mood is subdued. “He wasn’t that well when I last saw him. You know what they did. I don’t think Michael could have handled prison.”

I still have difficulty understanding Michael’s decision. Prison was rough, but it would have been over by now. I blame myself.

“It was my fault. I allowed myself to be fooled by that man.”

Gerry disagrees. He can think of a hundred reasons why I shouldn’t carry this blame, but I’ve heard them all before, and none are convincing.

“That man has destroyed a lot of lives. He’s ruthless. We put the word out after you lot got done, but he’s been back and nicked others.”

“He’s queer. He tried to kiss me that night and wanted me to go back to his flat. They didn’t believe me in court, and I ended up doing more time because of it.”

“He’ll get what’s coming to him one day, mark my words.”

I hope Gerry’s right, but the pain he caused can never be undone. I’m desperately sorry for Michael and bitter at the system that did this to him.

“How dare they! What right do they have to treat people like this?” My angry voice turns heads around the bar. Time has done nothing to quell the rage that burns inside me, and I cannot escape from the terrible burden of guilt. I know I will always blame myself, and as much as it hurts, I suspect Michael feels the same way. That’s probably why he never visited.

Gin helps to ease the pain, but in the familiar surroundings of the Prince Regent, Michael is everywhere I look. My celebration is muted, and I spend the rest of the evening drowning my sorrows.

Mrs Jenkins is an early riser, and every Saturday morning, she pushes one of those new vacuum cleaners around the house. It sounds like a jet engine, and I’m unable to sleep off my hangover.

She leaves my room till last, but I’m still in bed when she knocks. I throw on a dressing gown and open the door, then sit on the bed and wait for her to finish. It’s the first time she’s seen me half-dressed, but she doesn’t complain or even mention it. I think the rather odd situation quite amuses her, but I’m more concerned about my thumping headache.

At last, she switches the bloody thing off.

“Are you sick?”

“No, just tired.”

“I’m not surprised. It was past midnight when you came home last night. You woke me up.”

“Sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter. You're entitled to let your hair down now and then. Were you with anyone special?”

“Just a few friends.”

She looks like she doesn’t believe me. “I thought you might have a lady friend.”

I laugh at her ridiculous suggestion. “Good heavens, no.”

“It might do you good to meet someone. Some men need a woman to guide them.”

It’s a strange thing to say. “I don’t think I need anyone to guide me, Mrs Jenkins.”

“We’ll see. Oh, and you can call me Maude from now on. Mrs Jenkins sounds too formal. What were you celebrating last night, then?”

I admire her persistence, but I suppose she has little else to do.

“If you must know. I have a new job. Writing for the Daily Telegraph.”

Maude is genuinely pleased for me, and later that day, she insists on making me a celebratory meal. She’s a good cook, and this is the best meal I’ve eaten since leaving home. She watches me clean my plate with a satisfied smile.

“That was delicious, Maude. It was the best meal I’ve ever had.”

She laughs off my compliment, but she’s blushing as she clears the table, and I can tell it means a lot to her.

“You were hungry,” she says. “You need to eat better. Especially now you’ve got an important job.”

“I’ll try.”

I don’t enjoy cooking, and I’m not particularly good at it. Maude knows this, and she has a solution which can benefit us both.

“Why don’t you let me cook you a meal in the evenings? I don’t mind. It’s just as easy for me to cook for two. You can eat down here instead of upstairs in your room. It’s more civilized.”

I’m not sure if I want her to cook for me. There are connotations that I’m not entirely comfortable with, but it makes sense, and I’m won over when she fetches her homemade dessert.

To satisfy my conscience and preserve my independence, I insist on keeping it formal and businesslike. I want to pay for this service, and I’m prepared to add it to the rent, but she refuses to take my money.

Eventually, we reach an agreement. Maude will cook my evening meals in return for an extra ten bob a week to cover the cost of the food. It’s a good deal, and by the end of the month, I’ve put on half a stone.

Maude looks happier now she has someone to feed. It seems to give her a purpose she didn’t have before, which is reflected in how she presents herself. I notice some days she’s wearing makeup, even when she doesn’t need to go out, and her clothes are a little more feminine. I much prefer her like this and choose to ignore the niggling doubts in the back of my mind about her long-term intentions.

I realise I have become a replacement for Maude’s lost husband, but perhaps that’s not a bad thing. She’s quite old-fashioned and needs a man in her life to look after. It’s how she’s been brought up, and I see nothing wrong in that, providing it doesn’t go any further.

She likes flowers, and I’ve gotten to know a charming young cockney with a stall at the end of Fleet Street. Every Thursday, he makes me up a special bunch filled with vibrant colours and Maude spends the evening putting them around the house. We’ve become quite close recently. Maude’s now more of a friend than a landlady, and sometimes after dinner, I’m invited to stay and watch her television.

I’m domesticated up to a point, but I easily slip back into old habits. The Prince Regent is lively before Christmas, and I bump into some old friends, but I’m here to meet someone else. The cockney flower seller is called Dennis. He’s loud, brash, and a little rough around the edges, but we share the same interests, which we explore later in his East End latty.

It’s Christmas, and Maude and I exchange gifts. She gives me a pair of pyjamas, and in return, she gets a bottle of sherry which we open after eating her sumptuous meal.

“You're a good man, Anthony. You're very thoughtful and appreciative, but I feel I hardly know you. Tell me a little about yourself.”

“What is it you want to know?”

“You never talk about your family or plans for the future.”

“My family haven’t been able to accept me, I’m afraid, and I have no plans other than furthering my career.”

“Work can only bring you so much happiness. Other things are equally important. Every man needs a woman.”

“Marriage isn’t something that appeals to me.”

She looks sceptical, but she’s aware of my past.

“Nonsense. You can invite her for dinner if you like; I don’t mind.”

“Invite who?”

“Your lady friend. I’d be interested in meeting her.”

“There is no lady friend.”

“Then who are you with when you go out in the evenings?”

I don’t think Maude will ever be able to understand my sexuality, or maybe she doesn’t want to. I’m starting to believe there’s another reason for her sudden interest in my private life, which we need to discuss. I’m undoubtedly naïve when it comes to a woman’s needs, and my ambiguity may have encouraged her to believe in something that wasn’t there.

*     *     *

June 1956.

It’s almost two years since the police raid on Michael’s apartment changed my life, and now, like all criminals, I cannot resist returning to the scene of the crime.

Besides putting on a little weight, Michael doesn’t look much different, and he’s excited to see me, but the moment he opens his mouth, it’s clear how much he’s changed. He’s a mess, hunkered down under piles of debt and depression.

I’m there to cheer him up and offer some hope, but I encounter a wall of negativity. A mind that was once bursting with ideas is now bogged down in a mire of perpetual self-doubt.

It's disturbing for me to see him like this, and I find it difficult to hide my emotions as I make us some tea and try to lighten his mood.

“I bumped into Freda the other day; she asked me to say hello.”

There’s no answer, so I continue my search for clean cups. The sink is full of dirty dishes and chipped crockery, and there’s a foul smell coming from the drain. I find two cleanish mugs on the draining board and swill them out as the kettle starts to whistle.

Michael is in the bedroom, surrounded by nostalgia. Dozens of photographs litter his bed. “My mother wants me to go home.”

I smile and place his tea on his bedside table. “I think it’s a good idea.”

“I don’t. I hate it there. Not my family so much, but the area. I don’t think I could face that anymore. You know what they’re like.”

I do. Lambeth is full of thugs, and Michael’s mannerisms have become far too effeminate for him to navigate those streets without incident. Queer bashing is commonplace and low on the list of police priorities, but without a regular income, his options are limited.

“I wish things were different.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll manage. Look at you, Anthony, the journalist, columnist, and writer. I knew you would do it. I’m proud of you.”

“I got lucky. The editor of the Telegraph saw an article I wrote in the Gazette.”

“It wasn’t luck; you worked hard. Maybe it was for the best that we didn’t get to go to Amsterdam.”

I find it hard to agree. I know that no matter what happens in the future, it isn’t going to be worth losing him.

On the floor in front of me is the blue silk tie he wore that night. I stoop to pick it up and let it slide between my fingers.

“I’ve thought so much about that night.”

“Me too.” He sips his tea and looks away. “What was it like?”

“You mean prison?”

“Yes, I’ve heard stories.”

“Probably not true.”

He smiles. “I hope not. I was worried.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t visit. I just ….”

“It’s okay. I understand. You’ve had your own problems to deal with. How did it go? Do you feel different?”

Michael lights a cigarette. “Yes, they changed me into a fucking woman.” I’m unsure if he’s joking, so I don’t react until he smiles. “Not totally. I’ve still got a willy.”

“Phew, you had me worried for a minute.”

“I just can’t use it.”

“Oh.” I don’t know what to say.

“Well, I can use it to pee, but it’s not much good for anything else, and I’ve started growing tits.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I think they look quite nice on me.”

I laugh, but I have no desire to see for myself.

“It was my fault, Michael. I’m so sorry.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Larry. The sharpy. I invited him to join us. I should have listened to Gerry.”

Michael’s crying. Perhaps he does blame me after all. As he sobs, I put my arms around him, and soon I’m doing the same.

“You mustn’t blame yourself. I’m the one who invited everyone back to the flat. But we can’t change what happened.” Michael wipes his eyes and smiles. “He came back, you know.”

“Who?”

“Larry, the sharpy. He knocked at my door late one night when you were in prison. He was drunk.”

“What did he want?”

“He’s queer; you know that, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

Michael isn’t surprised. “He told me he kissed you outside.”

“He caught me by surprise. He wanted me to go back to his flat with him.”

“His place in Islington, you mean?”

I suddenly feel sick. “He asked you too?” Michael doesn’t answer. “You went there, didn’t you? Why?”

“Because I had to! He can make my life bad if he wants. He said I’d go to prison. Look at me, Anthony. Everyone can see I’m queer. I can’t go to prison. I’d rather kill myself.”

I’m devastated to hear this, and I pace his room like a caged tiger. It’s all I can do to stop myself from punching a hole in his wall.

“He forced you to have sex with him and threatened to set you up if you didn’t comply.”

“I shouldn’t have told you. I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

“I understand, alright. He’s an evil man—a traitor to our kind, who uses his sexuality to gain people's trust and then puts them in jail. You have to tell someone.”

“Tell who? Do you think I haven’t thought about it?” Michael takes my cup. “Do you fancy something stronger? I’ve got some sherry somewhere.” His face lights up, and for a moment, he looks like the Michael of old. “Come on; I dare you.”

The alcohol helps us to relax, and the conversation is easier, but Michael won’t tell me how many times he has seen Larry, and I get the impression it’s still going on, maybe even with his consent. I leave his flat angry and confused. Larry is even worse than I thought. He’s a sexual predator who uses the law to disguise his crimes, but there’s nothing I can do to help if Michael won’t let me.

*     *     *

July 1956.

I’m not sure how I should feel as I crawl from Maude’s bed and collect my clothing, but it’s not the same as I feel with Michael or Dennis. I go downstairs and run a bath. I can think while I’m in the tub, but it’s cold when I get out, and my skin is wrinkled.

I have trouble looking at her. It’s like I’ve done something shameful, but she obviously doesn’t think the same way, and I’m relieved to see her looking happy. Sex with a woman is easier than I thought, and there’s no doubt I have feelings for her. So, maybe it will become more exciting with time.

I desperately want Maude to be happy, and I’m determined to do the right thing, but it’s not easy. I agree to meet Dennis for a drink on Friday night, and the next morning I’m climbing from his bed.

“Where are you going?”

“I need to go home, Dennis. Maude will wonder where I am.”

He laughs. “Why are you so scared of her?”

“I’m not scared. I just don’t want her to worry.”

“Maybe you should get married.” Dennis chuckles as I walk around his room collecting my clothes. They’re scattered over a large area, and it’s a while before I find my shirt behind the armchair. We were drunk, and I don’t remember much about last night, but I know it was fun, and despite the brazen nature of our sex, I don’t feel the same as I do after being with Maude. There’s no shame or regret, and I can look him in the eye as I button my shirt.

“Do me a favour and chuck us me kaffies.” I pick up his trousers and throw them onto the bed so he can retrieve his cigarettes from the pocket. “Ta. When will I see you again?”

“I don’t think we should do this anymore.”

Dennis scoffs and lights a cigarette. “You’ll be back.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“She won’t be able to satisfy you like I can.” He lies back and blows smoke at the ceiling with a confidence that makes me angry, but I know he’s right. He lifts his head. “Do you want the usual on Thursday? Roses to keep her happy.”

“Fuck off, Dennis.” I grab my coat and walk to the door.”

“I’ll make you up a nice bunch anyway.”

Outside it’s raining. The East End is dreary and mostly quiet. It’s a long journey, and I need two buses to get back to Brixton. I fall asleep and miss my stop. When I get home, Maude is sitting at the table with a pot of tea. She looks at me and then back at the television.

“There’s one in the pot if you want.”

“Thanks; I’m gasping.” I hang up my wet coat and sit down opposite while she pours the tea.

Maude doesn’t ask where I’ve been, and I don’t volunteer the information, but she surely knows. I’m desperately sad for her and wish there was some way to make things right, but I can’t control my feelings.

*     *     *

October 1956.

The fall of the British empire—probably best encapsulated by the Suez crises—and the advent of the Cold War have brought little cheer to English shores, but my life has never been better. The editor likes my work, and I write two or three articles a week. I accredit my success to Maude’s fine cooking and stable home environment.

After three months of living in sin, I feel I should do the right thing. It means a lot to Maude, so I finally propose, and we’re married at the registry office in Lambeth Town Hall. We have invited both families, but only her sister and mother show up.

Another noticeable absentee is Michael, although I hear he’s got a job and looking much better.

He works at a Lyons Tea House in Piccadilly, and we meet up the week before Christmas for a drink.

“How did your wedding go?”

“Great, no one showed up, but it was fine.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t think I could have …. Well, you know.”

“It’s okay, Michael. I understand.”

“Do you love her?” I take too long to answer, but Michael seems to know anyway. “Why did you do it?”

“I have feelings for her.”

He rolls his eyes and lights a cigarette. “I have feelings for my cat, but I wouldn’t marry the bloody thing.”

“Maude’s not a cat. You would probably like her if you bothered to visit.”

“Maybe. So, who’s taking care of you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you trade with her?”

“Yes, of course. It’s not much different.”

“Oh, please. Don’t make me titter. I know you better than that. You used to scarper at the sight of a palone’s willet. I’m sorry; I shouldn’t tease. I’m sure you're fine, husband.”

I know what Michael’s implying, and we both know he’s right, but it’s a problem I can’t address.

“What about you? Are you seeing anyone?”

“No.”

“Trolling?” Michael’s mood changes, and I realise my mistake. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s okay. I can still trade, you know. It’s a little different, that’s all.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m confused, Anthony. I don’t know who I am.”

“I know it isn’t easy.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’m not sure what I am. I’ve never been sure, even before the treatment. Don’t laugh at me, but I think I’m meant to be a woman.”

Laughing is the furthest thing from my mind. “It’s the drugs. That’s what they do,”

“No. I’ve always felt this way. I was born in the wrong body; I know this now.”

I’m shocked. Michael is undoubtedly in need of help, but I’m out of my depth. The hormone treatment has affected him mentally and physically. He’s starting to look like a woman, and he’s an emotional wreck.

When I return from the khazi, Michael’s in tears. Everyone is watching us as I usher him out into the street. It’s dark already and starting to snow. We stand by the stairs to the tube and watch the evening rush hour until he can continue, but I won’t let him go home.

“He’s not well. I think it’s the treatment they gave him. It’s like he’s a different person.”

Maude shares my concern, but Michael looks much better after a cup of tea and a good meal.

“Now I know why you got married,” he says as he joins us in the kitchen and hands Maude his empty plate. “That was delicious. Maybe I should find myself a beautiful lady like you to marry.”

Michael can be charming, and I can tell Maude likes him, but I know he’s not right, and there are bruises on his arms.

“It was him,” he says. “He was drunk, and we had a fight.”

“Who?”

“You know who.”

“You mean Larry? You told me you weren’t seeing him anymore.”

Michael’s crying again. “He turns up like a bad penny. I hate him, but sometimes he’s nice and treats me well.”

“He’s using you!”

“Do you think I don’t know that? I’ve told him not to come around anymore.”

“But he will.”

“Probably.”

“This has to stop, Michael.”

“It will.” He wipes his face and stares into my eyes. “I’m going to kill him.”

I nearly drop my drink, but I know he’s serious.

“Don’t even think about stuff like that. It’s no fun waiting for the hangman.”

“They won’t catch me. You’ll see.”

I stare at Michael. His steely blue eyes are cold and determined. There’s no emotion at all. I’ve never seen him like this.

I persuade Michael to stay at our house until I can work out what to do. At least Larry can’t get to him here.

Maude enjoys having a house guest, and Michael’s behaviour is impeccable. He moves into my old room on the first floor and seems much better.

My ex-lover is now good friends with my wife, and sometimes it’s hard to tell them apart. Michael’s mannerisms are becoming increasingly female, and it doesn’t seem to bother him.

While Maude is preparing a meal, Michael is doing my laundry. I’m blessed to have two wives, but when the urges become too strong, I inevitably turn to Dennis. He’s always willing to accommodate me at short notice and has become a necessary addition to our marriage, although nothing is ever said.

*     *     *

June 1958.

My brief and unconventional marriage to Maude concludes with her sudden death from a brain tumour. Mercifully, she’s only ill for two days before peacefully slipping away at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital in the City of London. As incompatible as we were, I had grown to love her dearly, and I’m beside myself with grief.

I leave the chapel flanked by Michael and Jack and head back to the house in Brixton, where family and friends meet for a solemn celebration of her life. It’s the first time any of my family has visited the house.

Later that week, I meet with the solicitor who reads me her will. Maude has left me the house, a modest savings account, and a portfolio of shares that mean nothing to me. My wife was a studious investor who had acquired considerable expertise over the years. I’m shocked when I learn the market value and the secretary has to fetch me a glass of water.

I lack even the basic knowledge required to play the stock market, so I’m advised to sell and instruct the broker immediately. I’m left with a considerable amount of money, more than enough to sustain my frugal existence for the rest of my life, but I’m lost without Maude and the following weeks are some of the worst I have known.

Michael is better now and has moved back to his flat in Kensington. He doesn’t mention Larry anymore, and that’s a good thing, but it annoys me to think he got away with it.

*     *     *

September 1958

Maude’s once vibrant house is now eerily quiet and dull, but I find salvation in my work. The lights in my office at the Daily Telegraph often burn long into the night, but today I must leave early. Michael wants to see me, and he sounds anxious.

We meet at Covent Garden tube station, and I’m concerned about his appearance. He’s badly shaken up and has a cut above his eye.

“What happened? You look like you’ve been in a fight.”

“I’ll explain later. I’m okay. Can we just go for a drink?”

We go to the Prince Regent, and two quick brandies help him to relax. It’s the first time we’ve been in there together since that fateful night, and it’s just like old times, but Michael’s mind is elsewhere.

Gerry is concerned and surprised by how much Michael has changed. He says it’s the drugs they gave him, but I’m not so sure. I think Michael genuinely wants to be a woman.

Michael’s drinking a lot. I know he wants to tell me something, but we’re surrounded by friends, and there’s not enough time to talk. It has to wait until closing time.

We’re the last ones to leave the pub. It’s cold and raining, but we’re too drunk to care.

“I’m going to see Roland in Amsterdam.” Michael’s leaning against me as we walk to the bus stop. He has a silly grin and finally looks relaxed. I’m jealous but pleased to hear Roland’s okay.

“Give him my love. When are you off?”

“In a couple of hours.”

I laugh. “Don’t be silly.” I know there are no ferries at night.

“I’m serious. Roland has made the arrangements. Someone’s picking me up from my latty.”

“The man with the fishing boat. Why?”

“You’ll know soon enough. I’m sorry, Anthony. This is why I wanted to see you tonight.”

“Michael, what have you done?”

“I have to go. Please don’t judge me; I had no choice in the end.” Michael touches my hand and leans in to kiss me. “I love you, Anthony.”

He steps into the road and hails a cab.

“Wait, when will you be back?”

He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to. I already know he isn’t coming back.

I’m in tears as Michael waves from the taxi before it drives away into the night. The journey home is the longest and loneliest of my life, but I know why he has to leave, and I pray that he doesn’t get caught.

I’m unable to sleep, and the next day, I’m late for work. I look a mess, but I manage to get some sleep in my office. The editor is concerned and tells me to go home, but I insist on staying. I’m expecting news, and I know the longer it takes to arrive, the better it will be for Michael.

The following day I’m in the press office at New Scotland Yard. A police detective has been found dead at his flat in Islington, and it looks like he was murdered. It’s busier than usual, with reporters from all the tabloids and broadsheets furiously writing in their notepads and passing around a photograph of the victim.

My hands are shaking as I hold the photograph. Martin Brannagan was a thirty-two-year-old undercover detective from the Midlands with an exemplary record and a bright future, but I knew him only as Larry.

It's hard for me to equate the police description of this popular detective with the deceitful slime bag who preyed on Michael and caused so much pain, but they are one and the same. The details of his murder send me into a cold sweat. The detective was found naked by his cleaner. The cause of death was strangulation, and the murder weapon was a blue silk tie.

I remember Michael’s chilling words. ‘I’m going to kill him.’ They repeat in my head as I walk back to my office on Fleet Street and sit in front of my typewriter. It’s somehow fitting that I should be assigned to report on this case, but I go home without typing a single word.

I know it was Michael who killed Larry. I don’t condone murder, but I understand why he did it, and I don’t want him to get caught. The prosecution would demand the death penalty for the murder of a police detective, and the thought of Michael being led to the gallows makes me physically sick.

It’s been a big story for weeks, and the police have made some disturbing discoveries. Martin Brannagan had a lot of enemies, and his reputation has been tarred with allegations of misconduct and sexual abuse. Michael wasn’t the only person he intimidated, and I’m shocked by the number of victims who appear from the woodwork. The police cannot keep it from the press, and I’m one of the vultures gobbling up the gruesome details and feeding it to a horrified public.

The police are forced to concede that one of their undercover detectives involved in the fight against male vice was himself a homosexual engaged in blackmail and prostitution. It’s a major embarrassment for the government and the talk of the West End.

I’m with Dennis, Jack, and Gerry in the Prince Regent. No one has seen or heard of Michael, and although no one says it out loud, I think they all know what happened. I know where he is, and I’m happy for him.

Six weeks pass before the police finally name Michael as a possible suspect, and within a few days, they’re knocking at my door. I spend an afternoon talking to them, but they leave with nothing. Michael’s disappearance has made him a prime suspect, and I know they’re looking for him, but there’s little else to link him to the murder, and no one has come forward. I don’t think they will ever solve this case, and I’m not sure they even want to. The public has lost interest, and a trial would embarrass the police.

My life is comfortable. I have a new partner, and I want for nothing. We still have to hide, but I’ve noticed a gradual improvement and a mood for change. We’ve been invited to spend Christmas in Amsterdam.

*     *     *

July 1967.

The House of Commons—acting on the recommendation of the Wolfenden Report published ten years earlier—finally passes the Sexual Offenses Act decriminalising homosexual activity between consenting men above the age of twenty-one in England and Wales.

It’s an important day for us and a reason to celebrate.

“Varda those dolly lallies care for a wallop?”

“Only if you promise to keep your butch fambles off me dish.”

My partner and I are getting a lot of attention. We don’t need to use Polari anymore, but we do it for fun and out of habit.

“It’s not me fambles you should be worried about, it’s me pots around your quongs.”

“Carts in your oven more like. Shall we order more bevvies and a plate of Jarry?”

London has changed recently, and it’s very noticeable to a couple of middle-aged queers like us. The sharpies have gone along with the draconian punishments, the witch hunts, and Michael.

It’s been eight years now since he left, and I know for certain he will never return.

*     *     *

I’m woken by Spencer tugging on my trousers, and I glance at the clock. It’s later than I thought, almost midday, and I still haven’t called Michelle to tell her my news. I want to see her reaction.

Spencer gets a pat on the head as I press the start button, and my desk is bathed in the bright light from the monitor. It takes a few seconds to power up before connecting to the internet, and then I’m set.

I click on Michelle’s photograph, and within a few seconds, her face fills the screen.

“Bona to varda your dolly eek.”

“Bona to varda you too.”

“How’s Amsterdam?”

“Good. What’s the cackle?”

I hold the letter from the Home Office up to the camera and wait while she puts on her glasses to read it. Her reaction is immediate, and she looks like she’s about to cry.

“It’s about fucking time. I’m so happy for you, Anthony.”

She removes her glasses and wipes her steely blue eyes. They haven’t changed much in all these years, and despite the wrinkles, when she smiles, she still has the cutest dimples.

“You're not crying, are you?”

“Sorry. I’m quite emotional today. I was thinking about you earlier. I found an old record in my attic, and I’ve been playing it. Do you remember this?”

Michelle disappears from the screen, and moments later, I hear Dean Martin. ‘Memories Are Made of This.’

“How could I forget.” It reminds me of Roland. He passed away years ago, and Jack too. There aren’t many of us left.

“It’s funny,” she says. “I hated this fucking bastard song so much, but now I can’t stop playing it.”

I still hate it, but I can’t help laughing at her foul language. It always sounds odd coming from a dear old lady. She’s eighty-one this year, but to me, she will always be my dolly filiome.