"Victorian terrace with a white sofa and a Habitat coffee table," said Jamie. "And how do you know about Arne Jacobsen chairs?"

"I've been in some very nice houses in my time, thank you very much."

"Business or pleasure?" asked Jamie.

"A little bit of both."

"So, was that a yes, or are you keeping me in suspense?"

"Let's catch a tube," said Mike.

They watched their reflections in the black gla.s.s opposite as the carriage rumbled through Tufnell Park and Archway, their legs touching and the electricity flowing back and forth, other pa.s.sengers getting on and off oblivious, Jamie aching to be held, yet wanting the journey to last for hours in case what came later didn't match up to what he was picturing in his head.

Two Mormons got onto the train and sat in the two seats facing them. Black suits. Sensible haircuts. The little plastic name badges.

Mike leant close to Jamie's ear and said, "I want to f.u.c.k your mouth."

They were still laughing when they stumbled through the front door of the flat.

Mike pushed Jamie against the wall and kissed him. Jamie could feel Mike's c.o.c.k hard inside his jeans. He slid his hands inside Mike's T-shirt and saw, through the living-room door, a tiny red light blinking.

"Hang on."

"What?"

"Answerphone."

Mike laughed. "Thirty seconds. Then I'm coming to get you."

"There's some beer in the fridge," said Jamie. "Vodka and other stuff's in the cupboard by the window."

Mike detached himself. "Fancy a spliff?"

"Sure."

Jamie went into the living room and pressed the b.u.t.ton.

"Jamie. Hi. It's Katie." She was drunk. Or did she just sound drunk because Jamie was drunk? "s.h.i.t. You're not in, are you. s.h.i.t."

She wasn't drunk. She was crying. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l.

"Anyway...today's exciting news is that the wedding's off. Because Ray doesn't think we should get married."

Was this good or bad? It was like seeing the adjacent train start to move. It made him feel a little wobbly.

"Oh, and we went home for the weekend and Dad's in bed because he's having a nervous breakdown. I mean a real one, like, with panic attacks and nightmares about dying and everything. And Mum's thinking of leaving him for that bloke from the office."

Jamie's first thought was that Katie herself was having some kind of breakdown.

"So, I thought I'd better ring you because the way things have been going over the last few days you've probably been involved in some truly hideous road accident and the reason you're not answering your phone is because you're in hospital, or dead, or you've left the country or something...Give me a ring, OK?"

Beep.

Jamie sat for a moment, letting it sink in, or drift away, or whatever it was going to do. Then he stood up and made his way to the kitchen.

Mike was lighting a joint from the gas stove. He stood up, took a drag and held the smoke down with the obligatory startled expression. He looked a bit like Jamie felt.

Mike breathed out. "Want some?"

There was going to be some ghastly scene, wasn't there. You drag someone halfway up the Northern Line for s.e.x which doesn't happen and suddenly you've got a disappointed and muscular stranger in the house who no longer has any reasons to be nice to you.

He wondered if Mike had ever stolen a car.

"What's up?" asked Mike.

"Family trouble."

"Big?"

"Yup," said Jamie.

"Death?" Mike took a saucer off the draining board and laid the joint on the rim.

"No." Jamie sat down. "Not unless my sister kills her fiance. Or my father kills himself. Or my father kills my mother's lover."

Mike leaned down and took hold of Jamie's arm. Jamie was right. They were surprisingly strong hands.

Mike eased Jamie to his feet. "In my professional opinion...you need something to take your mind off things." Mike pulled him close. His c.o.c.k was still hard.

For a brief second Jamie imagined Katie's drunken prophecy coming true. An unseemly struggle. Jamie slipping and cracking his skull on the corner of the kitchen table.

He pulled away. "Hang on. This is not a good time."

Mike put a hand around the back of Jamie's neck. "Trust me. It'll be good for you."

Jamie pushed back against Mike's hand but it didn't give.

Then Mike's eyes did the soft thing. "What are you going to do if I go away? Sit here and worry? It's too late to ring anyone. Come on. A couple of minutes and you won't be thinking about anything outside this room. I guarantee it."

And again it was like the parachute jump. But even more so. The fog of alcohol cleared briefly and it occurred to Jamie that this was why Tony had left. Because Jamie always wanted to be in control. Because he was frightened of anything different or improper. And as the fog closed over again it seemed to Jamie that he had to have s.e.x with this man to prove to Tony that he could change.

He let Mike pull him close.

They kissed again.

He put his hands around Mike's back.

It was good to be held.

He could feel something thawing and cracking, something which had imprisoned him for far too long. Mike was right. He could let go, leave other people to sort out their own problems. For once in his life he could live in the moment.

Mike slid his hand down to Jamie's crotch and Jamie felt his c.o.c.k stiffen. Mike popped open the b.u.t.ton and pushed down the top of his boxer shorts and wrapped Jamie's c.o.c.k in his hand.

"Feeling better?" asked Mike.

"Uh-huh."

With his free hand, Mike offered Jamie the joint. They took a drag each and Mike put it back down on the saucer.

"Suck me," said Mike.

And it was at this point that Mike's eyes did something entirely different. He let go of Jamie's c.o.c.k and seemed to be staring at an object several miles behind Jamie's head.

"s.h.i.t," said Mike.

"What?" asked Jamie.

"My eyes."

"What's wrong with your eyes?"

"I can't..." Mike shook his head. He was starting to sweat, little beads of perspiration standing out on his forehead, on his arms. "s.h.i.t. I can't see anything properly."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I can't see anything properly." Mike staggered sideways and slumped onto a chair.

Katie was right. It was just going to happen a different way. It was Mike who was going to have the seizure. An ambulance would come. He wouldn't have a clue about Mike's name or address...

Christ. The joint. Was it OK to bury a joint in the garden while someone was having a seizure? What if Mike choked on his tongue while Jamie was outside?

Mike doubled over. "I've gone blind. Jesus. My stomach."

His stomach stomach?

"Those b.l.o.o.d.y prawns."

"What?" asked Jamie, who was beginning to wonder, for the second time that evening, whether Mike had some kind of mental problem.

"It's OK," said Mike. "It's happened before."

"What has?"

"Get me a bowl."

Jamie's brain was so full he took a couple of seconds working out what kind of bowl Mike meant. By the time he'd worked it out, Mike had vomited onto the floor in front of his chair.

"Oh c.r.a.p," said Mike.

Jamie saw himself, standing in his own kitchen looking down at a big omelet of sick with his p.e.n.i.s sticking over the waistband of his boxer shorts, and he suddenly felt very bad for having left the cafe before Ryan arrived, even if Ryan had a horrible rucksack and thinning hair, and he knew that this was his punishment. And being uptight and controlling was bad, obviously it was bad, but it was also good, too, because if he'd been a little more uptight and controlling this wouldn't have happened.

He tucked himself back in.

"I'm really sorry," said Mike.

Jamie opened the drawer and handed him the tea towel with the London bus pattern that he'd never liked much.

Mike wiped his face. "I need to go to the toilet."

"Top of the stairs," said Jamie.

"Where are the stairs?" asked Mike.

Dear G.o.d, the man was unable to see.

Jamie helped Mike up the stairs then returned to the kitchen so that he didn't have to smell or hear what was about to happen in the bathroom.

He wanted Mike out of the house. But he also needed to be a better person. And being a better person meant not wanting Mike out of the house. Being a better person meant looking after Mike. Because when s.h.i.t happened to nice people they could say that it was an accident, or bad luck, or just the way the world worked. But when s.h.i.t happened to horrible people they knew it was their fault and that made the s.h.i.t so much worse.

He put on the washing-up gloves from under the sink. He got two Tes...o...b..gs from the cupboard and put one of them inside the other. He got the cake slice from the thingumajig drawer and knelt down and began sc.r.a.ping the sick off the floor and dolloping it into the bags. It was not a pleasant task (there would doubtless be worse upstairs). But it was good having an unpleasant task to do.

Penitence. That was the word he was looking for.

Oh Jesus. Sick was going down the cracks between the boards.

He wiped the floor with a couple of squares of kitchen roll and threw them into the Tes...o...b..gs. He filled a jug with soapy water, scrubbed the cracks with the vegetable brush, then threw the vegetable brush into the Tes...o...b..gs.

There was a bad noise from the toilet.

He poured some bleach onto the floor, rubbed it over the whole area with a cloth wipe, then disposed of it in the bags along with the vegetable brush. He wiped the cake slice with a second cloth wipe and thought, briefly, about leaving it overnight in a solution of bleach, but realized he would probably never use it again and threw it into the Tes...o...b..gs along with everything else. He tied the handle of the inner bag, then the handle of the outer bag. He then put them into a third bag in case of leakage, tied the handle of the third bag, carried it down the hallway, opened the front door and threw it into the bin.

There was another bad noise from the toilet.

He loved Tony. It was suddenly and painfully clear. Their stupid arguments. Over the wedding. Over the binoculars. Over the ketchup. They meant nothing.

He was going round to Tony's flat. Right after he'd sorted all this out. No matter what the time was. Say sorry. Tell him everything.

They were going to the wedding together. No. Better than that. He'd take Tony up to Peterborough next weekend.

Except that Dad was having some kind of breakdown. He ought to make a few inquiries about that first.

Whatever. He'd take Tony up to Peterborough as soon as possible.

He went up to the bathroom and knocked quietly.

"You OK?"

"Not terribly," said Mike.