there had to be other faggots, didn’t there? Because the secret existence of gayness dominated his and every other young male’s life on the estate. Anything not quite right was gay. Anything morally dubious was gay. Bad situations were gay. If it rained in summer it was gay. Boring lessons were gay. Even a slow computer was gay. Gay was a byword for everything that was wrong in the world.
Jake prepared to jog again as he turned down a sharp dip in the road. He stopped when he heard a noise, a shout from somewhere. He walked towards it. There was a gap in the houses and a path next to a stream cut through towards open ground where residents walked their dogs on nearby fields.
Another shout now, only louder, followed by a laugh. He reached the path and headed down through the trees into the darkness. In a patch of moonlit ground stood Kyle, his back against a large tree, held at the throat by the podgy hand of Wilson Woodrow. Three of Wilson’s mates stood around laughing, smoking and filming on their camera phones.
Kyle saw Jake before the others did, his frightened eyes blinking in relief. He couldn’t speak because Wilson’s hand was squeezing his throat. A little blood seeped from his mouth. Wilson grinned at Kyle’s terror then followed his tearful gaze of relief. He stopped grinning and let his hand fall when he saw Jake. The others turned too and mobile cameras were lowered.
‘Hi, Jake,’ said Wilson, holding up a placatory hand. ‘We were just having a little fun with your girlfriend.’ Jake stiffened. His eyes dwelled on the blood in Kyle’s mouth. ‘Oh, it’s not what you think, Jake. That was an accident.’ Wilson laughed and looked around at his amused crew. ‘I was just looking at the cut, when you arrived. To see if I could fix it.’
Kyle, now freed, pushed past Wilson and stood before Jake, tears streaming down his face. ‘Jake! I knew you’d come.’
Wilson and his friends stood ready to run despite their superior numbers.
Jake reached into his pocket and fished out The Smiths CD given to him by Kyle. He tossed it on the ground. ‘There’s your CD, Faggot. Pick it up and get out of here while you still can.’ He waited for Kyle to escape but instead of running, Kyle stood frozen. He glanced down at the CD case then up into Jake’s eyes. The sobbing had stopped but the look of desolation on his face was far, far worse, as though someone had reached deep into his being and ripped out his heart and soul.
For what seemed an eternity, Kyle held Jake’s gaze, then ignoring the CD on the ground, he turned to face Wilson, took a deep breath and walked back towards him.
Wilson grinned but confusion quickly flooded his face.
Wilson landed a haymaker on the left side of Kyle’s head and he collapsed like a house of cards. ‘Fucking queer.’ His friends made to close in around the prostrate form but Wilson held up a hand to halt them. ‘No. That’s what he wants — the fucking perv likes it. I’m gettin’ away from this freak.’ Wilson stomped off, assuming the mantle of the injured party, his mute entourage trailing in his wake. ‘All yours, McKenzie,’ he hissed, making sure he gave Jake a wide berth. ‘I’m going to get me some mature poontang,’ he said, hitching at his crotch to make his meaning clear. ‘Get the taste of gayness out of my mouth.’ His friends sniggered their approval.
Jake watched them leave, laughing, shouting and texting others about their triumph. Then he turned back to Kyle. From a pocket, Jake pulled a small hand flannel which he used to wipe sweat from his face when he jogged. He ran down to the nearby stream and dunked the flannel into the cold water then ran back to Kyle, who was trying to sit up. Jake nursed his lolling head on to his knee and dabbed the blood from his mouth. He then wiped Kyle’s brow, and the cold water revived him. ‘Are you all right?’
Kyle’s dark cow eyes opened and his long lashes fluttered as he focused. For a split second he made to smile then his face paled and he sat up. ‘Get off me,’ he muttered groggily.
‘Kyle, you’re-’
‘Get off me.’ Kyle squirmed unsteadily to his feet. ‘Don’t touch me.’ He righted himself and managed to stand then staggered away towards the darkness of the fields, pushing past Jake’s outstretched hands.
‘Kyle!’ shouted Jake after him.
Kyle lurched out of sight, sobbing. ‘Leave me alone, you bastard. I hate you.’
Seven
Brook and Noble arrived at the shiny new mortuary in the Royal Derby Hospital complex at nine the next morning and headed straight for the Post Mortem Suite. When they arrived, Dr Habib was already finishing work on the dead man and was preparing to remove his gown and mask while an assistant took the final photographs.
Habib was a short chubby Asian man with soft brown eyes blinking behind thick round glasses. His face was wrinkle-free, despite advanced age, his hair, sticking out from under his surgical cap, was reddish-brown save for a few strands of grey that hadn’t seen sufficient henna.
After he stuffed mask and gown into a hazard bin, he muttered an instruction to his assistant who set down the camera and laid out the deceased’s hands, palm up, and ready to roll on the fingerprint ink. When Brook and Noble entered the lab, fiddling with surgical masks, they ventured no further than the freezers.
Habib grinned when he spotted them. ‘Inspector Brook. And Sergeant Noble also. Nice to see you. Just finishing up.’
‘You got an early start,’ said Brook.
‘It’s a lot quicker without clothes to bag and organs to remove,’ said Habib. ‘And we’ve got a backlog to work off.’
‘What have you got for us?’ interrupted Brook, fearing a lecture on excessive workload — Habib’s favourite topic of conversation.
Habib paused, wondering whether Brook should be made aware of how much he had on his plate, then decided against it. ‘More questions than answers at this stage, I fear. A tricky case — but very interesting.’ He smiled warmly at his assistant who walked over to them, camera in hand. ‘Gentlemen,’ Habib gushed towards the detectives. ‘Can I introduce Dr Ann Petty?’
‘Detectives,’ she said through her surgical mask. Brook caught a glimpse of her green eyes as she ran them briefly up and down, first Brook’s then Noble’s frame before returning to her work. The two detectives pretended not to notice. This wasn’t a come-on but a reflex they’d noticed in every pathologist, undertaker or mortician they’d ever had dealings with. Without being aware of it, the technicians of death always ran an experienced eye over new acquaintances, to estimate their weight and assess how their corpses might present on a cold steel trolley. ‘Slab happy’ was the phrase Noble had coined to describe it.
‘Does this mean you’re no longer short-staffed, Dr Habib?’ asked Noble. Brook darted a warning glance at him.
‘For the moment,’ replied Habib. ‘For now, Dr Petty is under my supervision and will be replacing me when I retire next year, at which point
‘Interesting case, you say,’ said Noble.
Habib gestured them through to the office at the side of the lab and removed his gloves while Dr Petty continued with the fingerprinting. ‘And puzzling, though you’ll be pleased when I tell you that we’re reasonably sure the deceased wasn’t murdered.’
‘It was natural causes?’
‘No, Inspector. But also yes. He died of alcohol poisoning. That’s what I’ll be telling the Coroner.’
‘Is that a natural cause?’ asked Noble.
‘Not officially. But it is if you’re a chronic abuser of alcohol and drugs. For this gentleman, ingesting large amounts of very strong spirits would be routine, judging from the condition of his brain. Also, needle-marks on his arms indicate occasional drug abuse. Probably heroin — we’ll know for sure after more tests.’
‘But he drank himself to death.’
‘It looks like it. At first, Dr Petty and I thought alcohol levels were so high that maybe there might have been
