A Death in Winter
Page 28
Crossing the road, he stepped through The Toreador’s swing doors and found himself standing in Birmingham’s only gay pub. It was 9pm and the bar was crowded with the usual array of young and old queens, each trying to outdo the other in how camp they could be. There was also a few bodybuilder types who desperately wanted to be Tom of Finland, but the vast majority were well-dressed men, young and old, in respectable two- and three-piece suits – their homosexuality, a secret kept from family, work colleagues and straight friends. Passing them in the street, they looked just like anyone else and that’s because they were.
Most incongruously of all were a couple of old female prostitutes standing at the bar with their pimp. They were wearing matching black leather skirts, jackets, stockings and high heels. A full half-inch of slap had been applied to their faces to cover the cracks. Maybe their trade was naughty boys who wanted to be chastised for being queer, he thought, as he walked to the bar.
He would only stay 30 minutes. He had to be disciplined, stick to the routine, never deviate and he’d be safe. If he found nothing within that time, he’d leave. He ordered a half pint of mild and walked slowly around the pub. Beyond the bar, at the back of the pub, the older men chatted and watched. No action there.
Opposite the bar, a partition split the remaining space into two parts. The section nearest the downstairs toilets was reserved for the queens and their friends. It was from here that most of the noise, laughter and mock shock originated, as detailed descriptions were shared about latest conquests, crushes and disasters. He wasn’t interested in the occupants of this hysterical world.
The section nearest the door was occupied by the less flamboyant drinkers. These were the well-dressed young and not-so-young men who were looking to meet someone that wouldn’t attract any second looks on the street. This was his hunting ground.
As he walked about, he nodded at one or two people who were obviously interested in him but didn’t stop or say hello. His first circuit of the bar was unsuccessful. Nothing of interest here, he thought. Then, he felt the familiar thrill as the door opened and a young man entered. A little under 6 foot, with shoulder length brown hair, he was wearing Levi jeans, a pink button-down shirt and windcheater, and was carried a pair of ice hockey boots. His movements were athletic, effortless and natural. If only he sounded as good as he looked.
The newcomer approached the bar, but before he could order the man moved next to him and said, ‘Can I buy you a drink?’
The newcomer hesitated, looked at the man, liked what he saw and said, ‘Thank you. That would be nice.’
‘My name’s John,’ said the man, holding out his hand.
‘I’m Joseph, but you can call me Joe. Pleased to meet you.’
The combination of soft hand, firm grip and soft classless accent sent a jolt of excitement through the man.
Thirty minutes later, they left the pub and drove towards Summer Lane. At this time, on a Saturday night, the man knew that the area would be near deserted as the factories and wholesalers were now closed and locked. John had no difficulty finding the deserted alleyway and abandoned building he’d scouted earlier that day. Pulling in, he parked. The passenger door was just inches away from the wall.
Joseph was eager to start and, leaning across, kissed the beautiful stranger he’d just met. At the same time, he undid his own flies, pulled out his semi-erect penis and placed John’s hand on it. John’s reaction wasn’t what he expected. Instead of holding him, he pulled his hand away as if he’d been burnt by a hot plate.
‘What’s the matter? Don’t you fancy me?’
‘Oh I do. I most certainly do. That’s the problem.’
‘I don’t understand?’
‘I know you don’t, but you will.’
Joseph realised that something was wrong half a second before John slammed his elbow into his right temple. Stunned, Joseph fell back in his seat and tried to reach for the door latch. Grabbing a short iron bar from beneath his seat, John smashed it down on the back of the youth’s head. The young man slumped against the side window, unconscious. Unfortunately for him, that state wouldn’t last long.
Handsworth
Saturday 27th April, 09.00hrs.
Detective Constable Michael Collins had been awake for ten minutes, but he lay without moving, warm, content and looking forward to the day. Agnes stirred beside him and, leaning across, he gently kissed her on the lips. Opening her eyes, she smiled and asked, ‘What’s the time?’
‘Just gone 9, on this grand spring day. How did you sleep?’
‘Wonderfully,’ she said, remembering their lovemaking of the night before. ‘How about you?’
‘Terrible. I was awake all night.’
‘And what pray kept you awake.’
‘Well I’m in love with this beautiful older woman and she uses me for her carnal delights, but refuses to marry me.’
‘Oh, you poor dear. That must be awful. Have you told her how you feel?’
‘Dozens of times, but she won’t allow me to make an honest woman of her.’
‘Well, what can I say, except that it’s your turn to make breakfast.’
‘There you go again. Changing the subject.’
‘I am not. I have a meeting at Bull Street Meeting House at 11.30 and you have to take Sheba for a walk before you go to your football match with Clark.’
‘You’re a hard woman, Agnes Winter. First you raise me hopes and then you destroy them.’
‘You’ll get over it, I’m sure. Now, on your way and be sure to ask Clark how Ruth is. It can’t be long now.’
Collins rolled out of bed and headed to the bathroom for a shower and a shave. He was looking forward with a child’s excitement to the FA Cup Semi-Final between Birmingham City and West Bromwich Albion, and an even bigger date at Wembley on May 18th. Nothing was going to spoil his day.