Crossing the line - 2. The intriguing Mr Heyward

Steve had been a friend of Father’s. A fellow librarian, they’d met initially through their professional association and remained friends, and Steve seemed to have automatically continued the connection through me after Father’s death. He was about half-way in age between Father and I, a bit of dry stick but with a droll sense of humour, suitably dry. And we got on. His wife was a painter and when we met up, we often chatted about the shows I’d seen. He clearly read my reviews and would sometimes comment on things I’d written and had forgotten entirely.

Our meetings were always the same, just dinner at a funny little Italian restaurant near Victoria Station where the staff knew Steve and, once you got used to the place’s quirks, the food was good. We’d sit in a booth at the back, thankfully away from the vivid frescos of La bella Napoli.

I had emailed Steve about Dan’s employer as I was curious. I should probably explain that Steve was chief librarian for a big national newspaper group, which meant he had access to a lot of information, and not all of it in the public domain. He was also fearsomely discreet; even if he knew something, he might not tell me.

But I was curious about the mysterious Francis Heyward, Dan’s employer.

In the months since I’d known Dan, he had hardly seen his employer. Certainly, none of Dan’s contacts had come up with anything bad about the man, but ideas from my politically active past kept coming back to me; you surely didn’t have that much money without something shady going on. For all my enjoyment of its fruits, I still had the fundamental feeling that capitalism was if not bad, certainly untrustworthy.

Once seated at the restaurant, Steve and I had exchanged pleasantries, placed our order and were drinking glasses of house red.

“What do you know about Francis Heyward?”

Steve looked at me, head tilted down but looking up, a rather particular way he had “Was there anything in particular?”

“No, it’s just”, I paused, “I sort of don’t trust all that money, and I’ve developed a kind of personal connection”, Steve simply waited, staring. “I’ve been seeing a bloke, and it has got sort of serious, or at least more so than most. Far more.”

“Congratulations”, this was said rather dryly, but I knew he meant it. He’d known me long enough to know that my success in the relationship field had been woefully lacking. “And where does Mr Heyward fit in?”

“Dan, my boyfriend, works for Heyward, heads up security at his big place outside London. And, well, I’m sort of concerned in case Dan’s got himself into something.”

Steve nodded. “Well, there’s plenty of money, I’ll say that.”

“Legal?”

“No-one has ever found anything. Francis Heyward’s Father, well, that’s a different kettle of fish. A developer of the most venal sort. Made a great deal of money on a series of corrupt council deals, back-handers, the lot. Building on Greenbelt land, you name it.”

“And the son?”

“Around your age, inherited the lot when his Father died suddenly, and immediately disposed of the business and went into the financial markets. He’d already done well for himself, and he increased Daddy’s Talents more than ten-fold. He’s all ethical now and going green. But with all that in the coffers you can’t help but feel he can afford it.”

“So, nothing juicy?”

Our pasta arrived, we had the ceremony with the pepper grinder and the parmesan grater. Then he replied. “As you say, there can’t be all that money without something.”

“Anything?”, I cocked a head at him.

He pulled a face, “Francis is gay, openly so. I suspect that if he were an ordinary mortal, he’d be well known for lurking in the back rooms of dodgy clubs in East London wearing leather boots and little else.” Another dry smile. Sometimes Steve amazed me, he seemed to live in his own little bubble of suburbia yet could come out with all sorts.

“But he’s not ordinary.”

“No. So, he does it for himself. Parties. Lucullan feasts, parades of leather men, you name it.”

“And this is true?”

Steve pursed his lips, “Not to print, no. Nothing on record, and precious little off.”

“That’s shame, but I’m not planning to print. I’m just curious.”

“Well, there are so many tales. You can’t have so many people involved without someone telling someone, word gets out. His legal people have it neatly sewn up, mostly. And they’re very hot on drugs, if you do it, you never come back.”

“Bouncers?”

Steve laughed, “His own security force. Isn’t that what our young man does?”

“Strictly outside only, he’s never been near a party, just nods the guests in and out.”

Steve nodded.

“And they’re counted.”

“The guests?”

“Yep, in and out, everyone accounted for, number-plate checking and facial recognition, the lot”. Steve raised his eyebrows, I smiled, “Dan has a lot of toys to play with, but not inside, no bouncers. Interesting.”

“Of course, none of this makes it to the press.”

“Pissed off ex-boyfriends?”

“Non-existent. Apparently.”

“So, either he’s left a string of happy fellas.”

“Or the pay-out is just too generous to jeopardise.” We nodded to each other and moved on to other topics.

--oOo—oOo—

“Bouncers, you say.”

“Yep. So much as light up a spliff or snort a line and you’re out. For ever.”

“Fuck.”

I’d been in two minds about sharing Steve’s information but after all Dan was an adult, he deserved being treated as one. But this had a bearing on his job.

“I knew some guys were moonlighting and I’ve no problem with that. If it doesn’t affect your ability to do the job, then what relevance.”

“Are they doing extra stuff for Heyward, then?”

“Mr Heyward has paid a couple of quick visits, there were events, and some guys were ‘busy’, booked up. And I saw Jack coming out of the Manor early, like. I was doing an early shift.”

I smiled, “I thought you were the boss, office hours only.”

“Oh, I do one, once in a while, and with Mr Heyward in residence I wanted to make sure everything was OK. Jack was coming out of the Manor, he looked very sheepish and admitted he’d been doing a job for Mr Heyward, a private job.”

“So, he was a bouncer for one of the parties?”

Dan looked at me, “Perhaps. Thing is, what about all this entertainment?”

“You mean, your security guards moonlighting as strippers?”

Dan shrugged, “Or something. Who knows? Jack’s a decent enough looking young lad, fit.”

I smiled, “And strips well?” Dan just stared at me. “Are you going to ask him?”

“You bet.”

“There is of course, one huge question.” Dan looked at me, puzzled. “Why haven’t we been invited to one of these parties?” We both collapsed in laughter at the unlikelihood of it.

“You ever done it in public, you know, have sex?”

“Well, I’ve done it in public places but there was no-one around.”

“Naah”, he laughed and punched me lightly, “You know what I mean.”

“Well, I’ve done it plenty of times in clubs, sweaty rooms full of half-naked guys, and the odd sauna in Amsterdam. But never the sort of look-at-me sex show type thing. You thinking of Mr H’s parties?”

“Yeah, if you were paid enough would you have sex in front of his guests at a party?”

“Not sure. Now, a 20-something young man with a girlfriend, waiting to marry, have a kid, get a house? Would he be tempted? Maybe, if the money was good.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“You think that’s what the guys are doing?”

“Well, thinking about it, the ones I suspect of moonlighting are all young, fit, decent-looking. Except for Kenny and I think he’s doing stuff for his brother-in-law’s building firm, so that doesn’t count.”

“You can hardly come out and ask if Jack or whoever is taking part in sex shows for Mr. H. Besides, if you come on too heavy, it looks a lot like intimidation.”

“You think?”

“Trust me, I do. Have a quiet word with Jack, but do it out of concern, that he’s not doing stuff for Mr H. because he’s under undue duress. OK?”

“Yeah, will tread carefully.”

We were sitting in the garden. Dan’s tending of it had wrought a magical transformation, at least to my eyes. Dan was deprecating, as he was with his cooking, he regarded himself as having just enough gardening skills. As far as he was concerned, he’d just put a few plants in, it was still a lawn with a couple of borders, though he’d also found two unloved tubs to hold plants on the terrace. But to me the garden had real plants in it at last, lively colours and textures rather than a plain lawn.

This was becoming a habit, having him round, doing things together. Perhaps people ought to see the garden, my friends should meet Dan and I should meet Dan’s friends. I thought I knew how we might start.

“There’s private view at Amanda’s Tramshed Gallery next week.” Dan gave me a look of mock alarm which, I think, disguised genuine disturbance. “No politics. Male nudes. An artist and a photographer, one old and disreputable, the other young and thrusting.

He grinned, “You know this from experience?

“Of course, I’ve had the pleasure of interviewing both of them at various times.”

“And they’ll be there. “

“No, they won’t. The exhibition is curated by a mate of Amanda’s. A woman selecting art by gay men, for gay men, that’s the idea. Some of my friends will be there.”

“So, you think I need to come out of the closet?”

“Precisely. What about your friends?”

“Not sure I have any. The blokes from my old nick, who I thought of as friends all seem to have evaporated. At Mr Heyward’s, they’re nice enough but you don’t make friends of guys who work for you, do you?” I kept quiet, not sure what to say. “There are mates from school but that’s just gags on Facebook.”

“Well, think about it.”

“Look, I’m not hiding you. If we weren’t together, I’d be doing what I always do – working, the odd drink after work, gym when I remember and visiting Gran.”

“What about her?”

He pulled a face, “I’ll be quite straight, I don’t know how to deal with Gran. She brought me up, she loves me, whatever. But she’s from Italian Roman Catholic stock, gay men don’t figure. I need to get married, preferably yesterday.”

It was one of genetics’ oddities, Dan regarding himself of Italian stock. His Irish father had disappeared early and never figured. Yet, looking at Dan you saw nothing but his Northern forbears, perhaps even Vikings.

“What about your Mum?”

My turn to look alarmed, “Mother wants to meet you.”

“You told her”, he grinned.

“Not, as such. She came up for the day, an exhibition and then tea here, check up on me. She noticed the garden (she’s a keen gardener and knows that I’m hopeless). And your gardening shoes, and your spare trainers.” Dan laughed.

In fact, he occupied a very small footprint. The stuff he left at my house was minimal, yet he had subtly altered the space. And there they were – a pair of size nine Nike Air trainers, the like of which I’d never wear. Mother had lifted an eyebrow and simply said, ‘who is he?’. She knew me well enough to know that there weren’t lots of guys wandering through my portals. And now she wanted to meet him.

“You mean pay her a visit?”

“’Fraid so, can you cope?”

“Look, let’s get the PV over, meet your friends and see what happens.”