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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
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Kissing the Dragon - 17. Roland

A formal invitation to a mansion event, a call from Chaudhary, and a clandestine meeting on Victoria Station withTony's friend Roland, leaves Colin in even more of a confused state.

After staggering out of bed sleep-fogged to climb up and punch off the alarm clock, I dive straight back beneath the toasty covers. Because I can. Second sleep is never a good idea, though, too shallow, and usually accompanied by disturbing and too realistic dreams. This morning is no exception and features a muscled and lasciviously grinning DC Whitehead towering over me as I hang naked and chained from the ceiling of a dungeon. Scantily clad in gladiator battle gear of scuffed brown leather, he points a roughly hewn sword at my throat. With his free hand, he slowly removes his attire, unfastening buckles and letting items drop to the floor: each of the leather arm guards, the sword belt, the waist belt and finally the subarmalis, the vest and skirt to reveal Whitehead in all his naked and aroused glory. At nine-twenty, I wake startled and disconcerted to the distant but persistent ringing of the house phone. Ignoring the sound, my thoughts scramble to decipher the dream. Is there some Freudian meaning to Whitehead’s appearance? And why does my body betray me by giving me a rock hard erection? Why was the soldier not Tom, the young, good-looking bartender from the club? Or last night’s saviour, Kit? Forcing my eyes open wide, I shake wisps of the Whitehead dream away. The truth is, I have had as much as I can take from this insensitive idiot.

After a short respite, the house phone rings again. Convinced the caller has to be something to do with the press, I am in two minds whether to pull the pillow over my head and sleep some more. But not only does the thought of encountering the Roman Whitehead again scare away any thoughts of sleep, but being in bed so late in the morning has a disapproving OCD forefinger wagging at me. Rising and throwing on Vaughan’s towelling robe, I trudge downstairs to an empty kitchen, flick on the kettle before snatching up the house phone.

“Hello?” I snap, after jamming the phone against my ear.

“Colin McCann, as I live and breathe,” comes an educated voice I ought to recognise. “Weren’t sure if you were still on this number.”

“Who is this?”

“Who do you think?”

Derek Partridge. Vaughan said he would call. Relaxing, I shuffle onto a bar stool and run a hand through my hair. During our college days, Derek and I once had a drunken night together. Lots of inept fumbling and half-hearted smooching but nothing more. The morning afterwards, realising we would never be boyfriend material, we decided to laugh it off and stay friends. And we remained so until the arrival of Vaughan had pretty much annexed most friends from my life. Hearing his voice now, I realise how much I miss him, miss his gentle brand of humour, perceptively droll rather than bitchy, politely witty rather than camp.

“Derek,” I answer, sitting down, my voice cheering. “Mate, I haven’t heard from you in centuries.”

“I could say the same,”

“Point taken. How’s life treating you? And how’s Hugh?”

At the mention of Hugh’s name, memories flood back. Finding his face in the photo at the club last night, I am unsure what to do with the information. If I show Whitehead or Chaudhary, they might make an unnecessary fuss out of something that might be nothing. Best to talk this over with to Hugh when I see him.

“We’re good. Hugh’s fine. Out canvassing again,” says Derek, without enthusiasm. “I imagine you know why I’m calling.”

Not difficult to guess. Vaughan told me Derek might call. Derek and Hugh want to honour Denny’s memory with a dinner party on Monday night for old friends. Before the funeral on Tuesday in his home town of Dorchester.

“Can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to seeing everyone. Sad that it takes something like this to bring us all together. The thing is Colin, we’ve only got three bedrooms in our place, and with Paul and Christian over from Oz and staying for a couple of weeks, that only leaves one room. And we might have around ten or twelve guests coming down—”

“Don’t worry, Derek. I can book into a local B and B.”

“Hang on. Give me a chance to finish. Hugh’s father popped in over the weekend. When we told him what we were planning and who was coming, he offered to put everyone up at his place. Everyone under one roof.”

“Are you serious? At the mansion?”

On the wall in the study is a photograph of Overton House and in the library books on the works of John Carr, and his Palladian style of architecture. Uncle Dom, a huge fan of the seventeenth century architect, once took me on a tour of Basildon Park, one of his most famous and beautifully maintained designs.

“Grab a pen and I’ll give you the address and directions. He has his own postcode, can you believe? I’ll also give you my mobile number, in case you get lost.”

Afterwards, conversation moves on to Denny, and he asks the usual questions about how he had been on his last night on earth. Seems as though everyone wants to think of Denny as being depressed or suicidal, or if he had a trick gone bad, or if he had become desperate and involved with the wrong type. While Derek is talking, I pick up my mobile phone and scroll to the image of Denny and Hugh in the nightclub. Right then seems like a good time to probe a little.

“Were Hugh and Denny close?”

“Are you serious? They were the best of pals. Hugh saw Denny more often than I did. Met up in London for drinks and dinner once a month, whenever Hugh got summoned to the City by his cronies. He’s a member of Wiggs, a private members club in Pall Mall. In the early days I used to accompany him. But that’s been impossible the past year, now we have the dogs to consider. After a night of boozing, Hugh would often stay the night at Denny’s.”

“Come to think of it,” I add quickly. “Denny did talk him up a bit.”

But the fact that he failed to mention the closeness of their friendship is not lost on me. And although Derek knew they met up each month he clearly had no idea they met at The Open Lockup. I decide that I really need to speak to Hugh.

“Same politics, old boy. Birds of a feather. Hugh’s taken the news of Denny’s death badly. Did you know that Denny made me the executor of his estate?”

“Vaughan told me.”

“Of course he would have,” he says, followed by an awkward silence. “And how’s that going?”

“Great. Life is a sweet bundle of joy at the moment. What with this and being grounded from school,” I say, and choose not to mention being burgled and stalked in the same week lest I sound too much like a victim. “Vaughan never did seem to pick the short straw. So actually your invite is very much welcome. After everything I’ve been through this week, it’ll be good to escape to the country.”

“Tell you what. Come down Sunday and stay for a couple of nights. Some of us are having Sunday dinner with one or two of Jeremy’s business associates. Nothing too formal and Jeremy’s chef is sensational. And you and Hugh can talk fine wines. His father has an amazing cellar.”

The thought of being among old friends is enticing. But then I remember Kit’s offer to drive and to keep me company.

“Would it be okay if I brought someone? Or is it just close friends?”

“Colin, you dark horse,” he asks intrigued. “Anyone we know?”

“Doubtful. He’s an American friend. Over here for work.”

“Hot?”

“Extraordinarily.”

“Then definitely. Why are you even asking?”

“And straight. At least I think so. But very gay friendly.”

“Ah, well. Can’t all be perfect. Bring him anyway.”

“And please tell me it’s not going to be black tie and all that palaver? You know how much I adore dressing up.”

“Smart caz. Just get your arse down here. And don’t forget your PJs. Winterbourne senior’s place has more bedrooms than the Hilton.”

As soon as I put the phone down, I text Kit to confirm the trip and, more importantly, to check his availability for both days. We parted on good terms last night but neither of us mentioned Dorset. I tell myself that if he cries off I will understand, even though I will be disappointed.

Once the message is sent, I take a deep breath and critically examine my inherited home, self styled and remodelled by my uncle, something that has become both fortress and prison. Even though I have been happy here, an overwhelming desire to get out floods through me, a current that shimmers beneath my skin and through my limbs demanding physical action. Between work and home, I realise I am caught in a stasis, not actively doing anything to move past Vaughan and the lifestyle we shared together. Maybe the teaching post in Argentina is my subconscious grabbing at any opportunity to make a change. Uncle Dom once told me that if you refuse to go looking for life, one day it will come and hunt you down, whether you like it or not, whether it is what you want or not. If this week is anything to go by, his prediction was right. Perhaps a couple of days away from home is what I need. Kit, and old friends, and a deep breath of country air. A text message pings on my phone bringing me back to myself.

- Great news. I’m in. Sunday midday @ Millers. See you there.

Are you free tomorrow night? Maybe see a film?

- Rain check? Heading to Scotland today. Interviewing an Earl at Gleneagles!!! Back Saturday.

I see. Travelling alone?

- Yep. Jeez, Cole. Did anyone ever tell you what a trip you are?

Only you. Enjoy. See you Sunday.

- Looking forward to it, handsome.

I was going to have a word with him about using that particular endearment, but staring down at the display I feel a pleasantly familiar fluttering in my stomach and groin. That night in his apartment he told me I conflicted him and now I wonder what he meant. No, I am going to view Kit as a metrosexual male, comfortable in his own skin and happy to befriend men and women, gay or straight. If I am going to be perfectly honest, I enjoy his little teasers. And I cannot deny that thoughts of him and the possibility there might be more than friendship, are keeping me simmering.

Just then, bringing me out of my reverie, my mobile phone beeps and I am slightly disappointed when the name ‘Bob’ pops up on my screen. My racing bike. A message to tell me my bike will be ready to collect after five today. Perhaps life is gradually beginning to return back to normal. At the front door, I notice the answer machine flashing again and, this time, simply delete the calls without listening.

Uncle Dom—a keen local historian—once told me that Croxburgh used to be a popular market town before the outbreak of the second world war. Sales of all manner of produce from surrounding farmlands and crafts by local artisans filled the town centre. Lavender fields in neighbouring boroughs brought a distinctive and popular aroma to the event with the sale of oils, soaps and medicinal remedies. Each Thursday, covered stalls would be set up along the closed main street and around the clock tower, and families would travel from miles around either to browse or shop. Monochrome photographs of those halcyon days are displayed on the walls of the local library and in Uncle Dom’s bookcase of local history publications. Although still labelled a market town, no market has been held here since the fifties when central and local authorities agreed to allow a busy main road to link Croxburgh with London and the south coast. In doing so, they cut the heart out of the town. With constant streams of traffic passing each side, the broken clock tower stands adrift in the town centre, once an important landmark, now little more than a relic of the past: a folly. What was once a cheerful family high street has now become a busy and, frankly, dangerous carriageway. So much so that in the seventies the local authorities decided to border the pavement with ugly cast iron barriers. Uncle Dom fought against each small indignity with unwavering patience and stoicism, garnering influential support in the process. Even though my uncle and I are similar in many ways, I never found a cause worth fighting for. Perhaps I never looked hard enough.

On the plus side, unlike the emerging trends for American style business parks and continental hypermarkets in neighbouring towns, local shops in Croxburgh continue to thrive either because they provide personal and informed services—such as the cycling fanatic brothers that run Bob’s Bikes, and the local car accessory shop which also offers on-site MOT testing and tune-ups—or because they cater to niche markets such as the organic butcher and greengrocer, or Dolly’s cup cake shop. Thankfully, Croxburgh has managed to avoid the scrutiny of the usual generic coffee houses and fast food chains, probably because of the diminutive local population and restricted space on the high street. At four-thirty that afternoon, I am sitting in one of the local alternatives, Carlita’s Coffee, sipping on an English breakfast tea latte. I often wonder how coffee shops make their money. People flock to them partly because of the anonymity, partly an addiction to one of the last legal drugs, partly the comfort of having a quiet place to answer personal emails or invest in work. As essentially a tea drinker, anonymity for me is the clincher. I am almost finished with my drink and ready to head to Bob’s, when my mobile phone rings.

“Mr McCann,” comes the distinctive female voice of DS Chaudhary. “Are you available to talk?”

“I am. Fire away.”

“How are you doing?” she asks, “Are you managing to keep the press at bay?”

The nice thing about Chaudhary, and something that has only just struck me, is that she seems genuinely interested in my welfare. Yes, she has already admitted to knowing Janine, but this seems like something inherent, more than simply a professional courtesy. During a week when I am struggling to keep my head above water, the gesture is more than welcome. Without a thought, I tell her about my experience and how the calls have dropped off as the week has progressed. She listens without interrupting until I finish.

“The local will probably run something over the weekend, but don’t take anything to heart. In a week’s time it will all have blown over. Now, how did you get on at the club last night?”

Effortlessly, Chaudhary steers the conversation back to the point of the call.

“Why? What did Whitehead tell you?”

“DC Whitehead hasn’t been in the office today. We chatted briefly on the phone, but he has some other matters to attend to.”

I wonder if that is why he disappeared last night without a word. As simply and clearly as possible, I give her an account of what transpired making sure I mention meeting Oliver Mills and his information about one of my old friends drinking with Denny and Tony. Whitehead will undoubtedly tell her the same thing. When she presses me about who the friend might be, I am purposely vague because the last thing I want is incriminate Hugh for something probably innocent and completely unrelated. Instead, I ask if DC Whitehead managed to catch the hustler, Ramone.

“Apparently not. But it’s only a matter of time before we track him down. At least the evening wasn’t a complete waste of time. If anything does spring to mind, Mr McCann, please give myself or DC Whitehead a call.”

“Of course.”

I am ready for to end the call when she catches me by surprise.

“Another thing. What do you know about the law firm, Carrow Watson?”

“Not much. They’re a big city law firm. My ex-partner Vaughan works for them. Why do you ask?”

“The chief was contacted by one of their brass hats. On behalf of a Mr Forster. Said if anyone was going to interview you again, they needed to know in advance and one of their big boys would come and sit with you.”

“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” I say, suitably embarrassed. “I had no idea. They might have left something on my answer machine this morning but I assumed all the messages were from reporters and deleted them. I’ll tell them to stand down—“

“Relax Mr McCann,” says Chaudhary, clearly amused. “I told the chief this was somewhat out of character. I’ll let him know all’s well. Enjoy your evening.”

Humiliated and angry, I use the coffee shop wifi to fire off an irate email to Vaughan. Fine if he wants to assist me, but give me the opportunity to agree before ruffling the feather of the police department. Just as I finish, a text message beeps on my phone.

The message from an unknown caller reads cryptically: ‘2pm thursday cum alone jo java victoria stn’. The text has to be from either Roland or the girl. I ought to have expected they would want to meet in London. Although I have no idea where Joe Java is, I guess it is probably a café or coffee house in the station. But the thought of having a day out of the house is as welcoming as getting my bicycle back.

*****

Welcoming indeed, because cycling to Croxburgh station Thursday morning gives me a flashback to my days commuting to East Barton: left from my house and then a right, down to the end of Crawley Avenue, right onto the busy high street for around half a mile, then left into Collingwood and finally into Station Lane past Denny’s house. I could do the journey blindfolded. Each morning whatever the weather, I would punish the twenty minute ride and be at the station with ample time to buy steaming tea and a granola bar from the small cafe adjoining the station. Back then I used to be able to recite the train timetable verbatim to anyone who cared to listen.

Today I miss the 11:25 by ten minutes, so have to wait twenty more for the next. No matter, even the later one will get me into Victoria station before 12:45. After locking the bike up, I stroll onto an empty platform. Ten minutes later an elegant woman in a thick beige woollen coat, silk scarlet scarf with gold stars tying back her shiny jet black hair and large designer sunglasses glides through the barrier and perches on a bench at the opposite end of the platform. Perhaps her driver has the day off, I think, smirking to myself. Five minutes before the train arrives a flurry of other people turn up, those who clearly keep tabs on the timetable. Knowing I will be meeting Tony’s friend, I have made a point of dressing down; old faded denims, baggy grey tee with a rainbow pattern across the front, and an old pair of black Vans sneakers. I have also thrown on my old black woollen bomber jacket which has seen better days and wear a black paisley bandana around my neck. On hindsight, probably a bit youthful for my thirty three years, and I am a little surprised Billy made no comment.

With an hour to kill, I dodge my way through crowds and pass shops on Victoria station’s bustling concourse before finding a bookshop on Victoria Street that I know will have guides to Argentina. At ten to two, happy with a couple of well-chosen purchases—two official publications and one from the viewpoint of an expat living in Buenos Aires—I return to the disarray of chairs and tables outside a cafe and adjoining sandwich shop, spotting indistinguishable figures perched beyond the steamed-up front window of Joe’s Java House. None of the faces outside appear familiar, so I step into the humidity and ubiquitous coffee aromas of the shop. Early twenties and sitting with a girl around the same age, I recognise Roland instantly by his single black disk earring—a trademark—and lank brown hair. Life has taken its toll. Still youthful with an almost pretty complexion, his mouth appears to have given up trying to smile, his brown eyes sunken and bruised as though he has not slept for days. He sits at a table near the window with a pale skinned girl, raven hair with a purple tarantula-shaped hair clip. Her right ear is liberally pierced with silver hoops and she has heavy Goth makeup of black and purple plastered around her eyes. After spotting they both have drinks, I buy myself a regular tea and go to join them.

“Roland?” I enquire, as I approach the white marble-top table. He flinches at first, glowers nervously up at me before pulling the cardboard coffee cup further into his chest. “Do you remember me?”

“Colin. Yeah,” he says, nodding, and relaxing a fraction. “Alf and Den’s party. The lawyer’s bloke.”

Taking that as a sign of recognition, I remove my jacket and pull out the stool across the table from them.

“Vaughan,” I reply, remembering Vaughan telling me how he had helped Roland out of a tight spot with his landlord. “That’s right. Certainly remember you and Tony. Life and soul of the party. I suppose you heard the news about Denny?”

“Yeah,” says Roland, giving the girl a meaningful look. “We heard. Gay bashed in the woods. Supposedly.”

“I bumped into him the night before. Told me about Tony. I’m so sorry.”

“Tony didn’t do drugs,” says Roland quietly, anger flashing across his face. “Not never. Somebody got to him.”

“Is that what you think?”

“If you really knew him,” says the girl, about to take a sip of her juice. “You wouldn’t even need to ask.”

“So what do you think happened?” I ask, my question directed at Roland.

“Why are you doing this?” asks the girl, pulling the top of the peach Snapple away from her pierced bottom lip.

Before answering, I glance carefully around at the other customers. Nobody sits close to us, and those nearest seem engrossed in their own conversations, but on instinct I lean in towards the middle of the table and speak softly.

“Because I agree with you. Something isn’t right. The Tony that I knew back then despised drugs and everything associated with them. But then I hadn’t seen him for years. And I might be totally wrong, but I think what happened to him is somehow connected to what happened to Denny.”

Roland shares a look with the girl, and barely perceptible nod, before turning to me.

“You know what we do, me and Tony?” he asks, and I nod sombrely, not wanting to interrupt. “So about a year ago, Tony started winding down to just his regulars. Couple of handfuls at most. Uncomplicated ones that paid well. And he could afford to. He’d done well through a bit of moonlighting. Got himself a cash-in-hand job at an outfit near some industrial estate in Braxton Park—

“Braxley Park, babe,” interrupts the girl.

“Yeah, that’s right. Night work. Fixing up computers, evening support calls, data recovery, that kind of shit. Had a good head for technology did Tony. Managed to get Lizzie a reconditioned laptop.”

“A freebie. I still got it, ‘aven’t I?” she says, smiling and staring down at her purple rucksack, not at all aware that he has just given away her name to a virtual stranger.

“Anyway a few of his johns weren’t happy,” Roland continues. “Mainly the ones with their specials. He’d had it with them anyway. The others he passed on to me and Ramone, ones worth keeping, those who liked our particular specialities. And then the week before Christmas he dropped off the radar. I knew he’d been having problems with one in particular, but he said he had that sorted. And we never named names. We never hassled each other that way, but something weren’t right—“

“We all met up Boxing Day. Ramone too. Trade’s quiet ‘round Christmas. Surprisingly,” says Lizzie, catching Roland’s eyes. “Had a good time, didn’t we? Went down the Lamb, then out clubbing. He was quiet though, wasn’t he? Said he was fine but you could tell he weren’t. Tried to get him to come away with us.”

“Lizzie and me spent the week after New Year’s in one of her gran’s caravans. In Devon. Bloody cold, but nice to be away. He’d have loved it. And what really cuts me up is we weren’t even here when it happened,” says Roland, glowering at the table. “We didn’t know nothing about it until the police came knocking.”

“Not your fault, Role. Even if we’d been here, we couldn’t’ve done anything,” she said, putting a hand on his knee. After placing his hand on top of hers, she leans in and kisses him. Not a kiss between friends. I suppose I must have gawked then, to realise they were a couple. Perhaps I should have suspected, seeing the way they sat scrunched up so close together. So Roland was gay-for-pay.

“What exactly did happen?” I ask, before taking a sip of tea.

“Fourth of Jan. He must have had an outcall. Ramone said he went to his usual place, the motel in the Marshbrook service station. Room booked in his name. We do that sometimes if the client asks. Only if we know them well,” he says, casting a cautious glance at me. Perhaps my expression shows, I have no idea, but inside I cringe at the dangerous games these young boys play. “Normally we meet first at restaurants, bars, or some place public. We’re not stupid. So this was obviously a regular or a favour for a regular. Of course, nobody saw nothing. Cleaning staff found Tony dead on the bed the next day. With all the junk. Fuzz didn’t suspect nothing dodgy. Sort of thing happens all the time apparently.”

“They didn’t suspect anything? I though they searched his flat—“ I say, and then stopped, realising my mistake.

“Yeah. Last Thursday. How d’you know that?”

“Okay,” I say, rubbing the bridge of my nose before leaning forward again. “Cards on the table. Two detectives have been following up on Denny’s case. I told them my suspicions and suggested they unofficially re-check Tony’s death. If there is anything questionable, I trust these guys to find out. I just didn’t want to drag you into this.”

“And d’you think there is?” asks Roland, after a pause. “Something dodgy?”

I say nothing.

“You think he’d be here if he didn’t,” says Lizzie, staring straight at me. Smart girl.

“Do these detectives know you’re talking to us?” asks Roland.

“No,” I say quickly, and seeing their skeptical looks, add reassurance. “I mean it. I’m confident they can do their job but they don’t need to know everything. Look you don’t have to answer this. But would you be able to give me the names of any of Tony’s clients?”

“See. Told you,” says Lizzie, triumphantly, turning to Roland.

“So the thing is,” begins Roland, his mouth trying to smile, but only achieving a look of mild constipation. “You’d think Tony would keep all his private stuff online, on a computer locked away behind complicated passwords and shit. But for all his technology nous, he didn’t trust computers. One of his work colleagues fancies himself as a bit of a hacker and showed him a few tricks. Scared the shit out of Tone. Anyway, he kept the details of his johns in a good old fashioned address book and diary.”

“Is that right? And I don’t suppose you..?”

As I am speaking, Roland pulls a folded plastic bag from the inside of his jacket and holds the pack out to me.

“One condition,” says Roland, pulling the bag back as I reach to take it.

“Go on,” I say hesitantly, waiting for the catch. If he wants money, he will have to go begging.

“Don’t drag us into this,” he says, finally passing the package over to me. “Lizzie and me got engaged in November. We want a new start. A friend’s letting us stay at his place until we move into new digs week after next. Down in Devon.”

“He’s gonna be the maintenance man at gran’s caravan park,” she says, pride in her heavily made-up eyes.

“And we want to stay away from trouble. Had enough grief over the years from the fucking fuzz.”

I fold my arms, and once again glance down at the table. Why is there such a fine line between what feels like the right thing to do and what indisputably is. But good luck to them for trying to better themselves. Everyone deserves a chance to get their on track. On an impulse I pull out my wallet and dig out DS Chaudhary’s card, the one she gave me at our first meeting. When I hold the card out to Roland, Lizzie leans forward and grabs it.

“What’s this?”

“In case you do have any trouble. DS Chaudhary is the detective investigating Denny’s death.”

“Don’t bother.”

“Do me a favour and hang on to it anyway. In the meantime, I’ll hide you as best I can. I don’t particularly want to be involved myself. But if it does prove significant, I can’t promise to keep you out entirely. They may want to know how I got hold of this,” I say, waving the package and add as an afterthought. “How did you get hold of it?”

“Tony’s room,” says Roland, with a shrug, as though the question were irrelevant.

“We all lived in the same block,” says Lizzie. “You didn’t know?”

“Clearly not,” I say, trying to mask my surprise. “Was Tony gay? I mean, really gay?”

“Yeah,” says Roland. “But he was my best mate. Ours. And he was cool and smart, you know? He had a plan. Stashed a fair amount of dosh away over the years. We were all gonna be out of this shit-hole in a year or two. Backpack across Asia.”

“Did he have a regular boyfriend.”

“No. Think he might have liked one. But it’s tough in this game. And we were as good as his family. As well the bloke who died and his posh friend”

“Posh friend?”

“Don’t know his name. Lizzie called him Ned after the Simpson’s character. Bushy brown moustache and glasses. He was good to Tony, they both were. If you know Denny, then you’ll know him.”

“Yes, I think I do,” I say, confirming my suspicions about the photo of Hugh found at the Open Lockup. Sensing they have given me as much as they are prepared to, I break off and finish up my drink. “I need to get going. Thanks for this.”

As I stand up and begin to shuck on my jacket, I almost miss Lizzie’s whispered comment.

“We should tell him about the letter.”

At first Roland seems unsure, but then nods his acquiescence.

“We haven’t got it with us, but Tony had a letter with his diary. Addressed to your friend Denny. We haven’t opened it. None of our business really. Role was going to just dump it, but after what you’ve told us, perhaps it’s important. Can we leave it with you?”

“Of course you can.”

“Can you meet back here on Friday or Saturday? We’re staying with a friend around the corner.”

“Melbourne—,” says Roland, without thinking.

“Role!” she jumps in, turning on him.

“What? He ain’t gonna tell anyone.”

“Of course I’m not. Why would I?”

“Okay, I’ll text you again. And you’ll keep me and Role out of this?”

“I’ll do my level best.”

Out on the concourse again, I take a deep lungful of fresh air and join the world of normal people leading normal lives. Do we ever really know people, know what is going on beneath the surface? Anonymous people brushing past me could have all sorts of unusual stories to tell that a person would never be able to guess. But justifiably or not, Roland and Lizzie are scared, and I have made a mental decision to offer all the help I can. As I head for the platforms, I grin on seeing the stylish woman I had seen on the station, sitting outside the sandwich shop with bags of food shopping at her feet, reading a magazine and sipping on a cardboard coffee cup. Seeing the bags reminds me that I need to buy food for dinner. Approaching the gates to the trains, I check the large departure boards above the platforms and see I have twenty minutes until the next southbound train. When I check the full timetable, I estimate that I can still catch the four-twenty train beating the rush hour, and giving me time to head to an old secondhand bookshop tucked away behind Victoria Street, one that has manage to survive the brutal modernisation in the area. As I stride out of the station, I pass a mini supermarket, a small but convenient food store catering to busy city commuters and offering pre-packaged, if somewhat overpriced, fresh foods. I make a mental note to leave a few minutes spare and buy provisions on the way back.

During the ninety minute journey home, bookless, but stocked up and sitting in the coziness of the warm train carriage, I pull out Tony’s diary and thumb through. Diaries are strangely personal things, almost an anachronism in the advent of phone or web based diaries. Although the section and page design should make their use instinctive, Tony has heavily personalised his. He has used the alphabetically arranged and neatly lined contacts pages to provide doodles, and the occasional random and unattributed address, not to list names and telephone numbers. Instead he uses the two blank pages at the back of the book for this purpose, and even then there are no names, only what I guess to be initials or code. Student handwriting has been the bane of teacher’s lives since well before the advent of the personal computer, but Tony’s penmanship defies belief. To describe it as scrawl would be doing scrawlers an injustice. Tony has pressed so hard in places that characters are almost etched into the page, and torn around certain letters. After a while, however, I begin to decipher his hieroglyphs into a semblance of English. No insights jump out at me, nothing to suggest anything clandestine, just a book of scribble by someone I barely knew, someone I never will now.

 

I hope you enjoyed this chapter. If you'd like to join in a chat or leave any additional comments about the plot or cast of characters, I have created a forum accessed via on the link below:

http://www.gayauthors.org/forums/topic/40694-kissing-the-dragon-discussion-forum/

 

Brian (a.k.a. lomax61)

Copyright © 2015 lomax61; All Rights Reserved.
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Chapter Comments

Everyone nicely tucked away under the same roof in an old, old mansion. Very Christie-esque! I love it. I bet all kinds of revelations will be made. Just hope Colin will make it home alive...

 

And I must say I thought the Brute would be the one hanging from chains... ;)

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DCW as a Roman gladiator. Colin is having disturbingly naughty erotic dreams. I'm not sure what bothers me the most, that DCW is in it or Colin in chains. Colin's cavalier habit of deleting answering machine messages without listening to them has irked me from the start. It's another manifestation of his assumptions. At least he answered Derek's call. Now he's invited to a proper estate this weekend. A murder mystery and a vast English estate house. Nothing dangerous could happen there.

 

I have to laugh a little at Colin dressing down so drastically just to make Roland and Lizzie comfortable. Colin is so accommodating and calculating. You do have to admire those two's desire to get out of the trade and have a normal life. There is no future in that trade. I find it interesting that Tony had cut back on clients and had built up a tidy nest egg. It makes me suspect strongly that he was involved in some type of blackmail scheme. Someone he knew set him up. Denny was hit from behind. I hope Roland and Lizzie make it out so he can be the caretaker at that caravan park. It isn't much of an ambition, but it's normal and safe. Hopefully safe. I feel for Colin trying to decipher Tony's diary. I believe his handwriting is as bad as mine. At times I can't even read what I wrote.

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That dream..hmmm!
If the muderer is at the dinner party, it will be very convenient having everyone in the same room. A dead body ought to turn up, then it's a game of Clue! If not, there's plenty of info to be gained.
I doubt Lizzie and Roland could be kept out of this indefinitely. Maybe if Colin would tell Whitehead, he'd find a way to help them. In any case I hope he's able to decipher the evidence in that diary.
Great chapter..

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On 09/13/2015 09:57 AM, drpaladin said:

DCW as a Roman gladiator. Colin is having disturbingly naughty erotic dreams. I'm not sure what bothers me the most, that DCW is in it or Colin in chains. Colin's cavalier habit of deleting answering machine messages without listening to them has irked me from the start. It's another manifestation of his assumptions. At least he answered Derek's call. Now he's invited to a proper estate this weekend. A murder mystery and a vast English estate house. Nothing dangerous could happen there.

 

I have to laugh a little at Colin dressing down so drastically just to make Roland and Lizzie comfortable. Colin is so accommodating and calculating. You do have to admire those two's desire to get out of the trade and have a normal life. There is no future in that trade. I find it interesting that Tony had cut back on clients and had built up a tidy nest egg. It makes me suspect strongly that he was involved in some type of blackmail scheme. Someone he knew set him up. Denny was hit from behind. I hope Roland and Lizzie make it out so he can be the caretaker at that caravan park. It isn't much of an ambition, but it's normal and safe. Hopefully safe. I feel for Colin trying to decipher Tony's diary. I believe his handwriting is as bad as mine. At times I can't even read what I wrote.

Hi drpaladin - I am in total agreement with you regarding Colin's deleting of voice messages - and this is something that will cause him trouble down the line (that's all I'm saying). I won't spoil the story by telling you anything about the 'mansion' but I hope you won't be disappointed. Colin confided quite a bit of information to Roland and Lizzie. Let's hope it doesn't come back to bite him. Let's also hope he wasn't followed. Brian

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On 09/13/2015 01:48 PM, Defiance19 said:

That dream..hmmm!

If the muderer is at the dinner party, it will be very convenient having everyone in the same room. A dead body ought to turn up, then it's a game of Clue! If not, there's plenty of info to be gained.

I doubt Lizzie and Roland could be kept out of this indefinitely. Maybe if Colin would tell Whitehead, he'd find a way to help them. In any case I hope he's able to decipher the evidence in that diary.

Great chapter..

indeed, this would turn out to be very Christie-esque, if I was tempted get them all assembled in the library the end. And there will be all of Denny's old friends at the party, as well as a bunch of others, so plenty of suspects to choose from. But then Whitehead is no Poirot. Thanks for reading. Brian

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On 09/13/2015 06:18 AM, Puppilull said:

Everyone nicely tucked away under the same roof in an old, old mansion. Very Christie-esque! I love it. I bet all kinds of revelations will be made. Just hope Colin will make it home alive...

 

And I must say I thought the Brute would be the one hanging from chains... ;)

Hi again Puppilull. Funny how readers have suddenly associated the mansion with a Christie-esque whodunit. I hadn't even considered that but now makes it all the more fun. I think we'd all like to see DCW hanging in chains. Brian

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A tantalizing encrypted clew!!! i love it. And I love they are a couple and giving Cole some help. I hope they dont get offed, but i have mmy suspicions. The letter must be important. Awesome sauce!!!!

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On 09/16/2015 03:27 AM, Cole Matthews said:

A tantalizing encrypted clew!!! i love it. And I love they are a couple and giving Cole some help. I hope they dont get offed, but i have mmy suspicions. The letter must be important. Awesome sauce!!!!

Hi Cole - stick with it. Plenty of red herrings in that sauce right not but things will start to become clear very shortly. Brian

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Colin isn't in the least bit attracted to DCW. Not one little ounce. Yeah, right!   😉

I have had the feeling that this is very much like a Christie mystery for several chapters.  I also think it is too convenient for the assassin to have all these characters together, especially if the assassin is an outsider with an array of characters on which the blame can easily directed in the event of a death. Lizzie and Roland are still in danger.  If they lived that close, they should have arranged for Colin to get the letter immediately.  The longer they have possession of the letter, the longer they are in danger. Great job of building the tension. 

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