Back in the room, he places the cake and tea on the slim fireplace mantel and when he turns around David punches him in the stomach. The breath is knocked right out of him.
‘Flirting again?’
Another punch, this one to the ribs.
‘Directions …’ Jonesy tries to explain.
‘You’re disgusting.’
‘So are you.’ Jonesy is in a hell of a lot of pain, but he’s not afraid. It’s not like he’s going to die.
A fist lands on his face.
‘You’re going to make Tammy miserable,’ he whispers.
David grabs the soiled towel and twists it around Jonesy’s neck.
‘I’m not like you. I’m not queer. Say it. Say, “David you’re not queer”.’
He lets Jonesy breathe.
‘David, you are an invert, a queer, a poof, a sodomite …’
David grabs the Lusty chair and smacks it across Jonesy’s head. He goes down.
His rage spent, David sits on the bed and weeps.
Jonesy lies at his lover’s feet, his head rests in a small puddle of blood and he takes a few minutes to come to his knees. As he does so, there is a pounding on the door.
‘Raid! Move out!’ The landlady warns them.
‘What the bloody hell. It ain’t a Friday night up the West End, it’s bloody daylight in Pimlico,’ a man hisses out in the corridor.
David doesn’t hesitate. He hustles into his trousers, grabs his shirt and shoes, and after checking the corridor, he takes the rear set of steps that serve as a safeguard, the house popular for this reason. His lover of two years is not worth even a parting glance where he lies broken on the floor.
A few moments later a plain-clothes constable finds the door gaping.
‘Hey, hey, hey, wait a minute there.’
Jonesy writhes on the floor trying to get up. Slowly, he raises his head and tilts it to face the voice.
The constable drops his guard.
‘Holy fucking hell.’
Jonesy clenches the bed. Using the mattress, he labours first to one knee, then the other. His head has stopped bleeding. His jumper has soaked up much of the pool from the floor.
‘Your face.’
Jonesy’s hand goes to his jaw. Broken? He can barely make out the man in front of him. His age, he has no idea. His voice is kinder than that of his escaped lover, but he never trusts the police. The punches he can handle, but not the particular torture of the police. Not again.
Another constable pokes his head in.
‘Anything doing in here?’
This one, no, he’s not kind. Jonesy recognizes a hard-edged tone, holds his breath unconsciously and winces at what might be a broken rib. A hand tremor starts and in moments he’s a full shaking mess.
‘No, fine here. Check upstairs?’
‘Right.’
Jonesy suppresses a cry of relief.
‘Look. You’re fully dressed. There’s no one else here. Whoever made a dog’s dinner of your face has scarpered. I’m not going to arrest you. I’ll call an ambulance.’
‘No. Please, no hospital.’
‘You look bad.’
‘Please.’
‘Is there someone I can call? Where do you live?’
Jonesy’s tries to remember if he has enough money to take a taxi home and then is sure he doesn’t, it’s too far.
‘Do you have a phone?’
They do, but he won’t enlighten the police.
‘Phone box.’
‘Do you know the number?’
‘BER 2334,’ he slurs.
‘Bermondsey. What’s your name?’
‘Edward. Edward Moon.’
‘Who do I ask for?’
‘Edward Moon.’ Their emergency code.
‘You’re not making any sense.’
‘Please, just ask … Edward Moon.’
His split lip bleeds again.
‘Jesus. Okay, okay.’
Jonesy rests his head back; the vision of the constable fades and all he wants now is sleep.
‘Hey, hey, Mr Moon.’
‘Who is Mr. Moon?’
‘You said you were. I’m going downstairs now to phone. You have to stay awake.’
‘I’m not going to die.’
‘Seriously, don’t go to sleep.’
Jonesy fully expects the constable to return and blacken his other eye, or break one of his bones, some mark of violence to show that he does his job well.
He waits in the fading light, still on the floor, leaning against the bed. It isn’t as dangerous as it used to be. They can’t hang him. He has no reputation to ruin. But they can arrest him, lock him up, and then they will have their fun with him. He never again wants to be in a locked cell at the mercy of a policeman in denial of his own love for cock.
The constable is back. Jonesy can smell something on his clothing, a mix of tobacco and musk. The next moment he is being lifted with some difficulty onto the bed. He struggles to open his eye; the other is swollen shut. But when his good eye meets the constable’s gaze his breath quickens, causing pain at his ribs. He’s one of us. I can tell just by looking a man in his eyes. He has a thimble of hope that he will be left in peace to be collected, that the constable wasn’t lying and will not arrest him.
‘Why do you do this job?’ Jonesy asks.
The constable switches on the lamp with the frayed shade. The commotion in the corridors and stairs has calmed.
‘I have to go. You should at least go to the doctor.’ He turns to leave.
‘Constable. Thank you.’
‘Stay out of trouble.’
An hour later, when every part of him is throbbing and the pain sends him near delirium, he can’t tell whether Finn and Rafe are standing at the foot of the bed, or whether he is dreaming it.
‘Who did this to you?’ Rafe asks.
‘Later,’ Finn says. ‘Let’s get him home.’
They negotiate the stairs where, at the landing, the landlady asks for compensation. ‘For my trouble.’ Finn throws notes on the reception table and they carry Jonesy to the Hillman and ease him in with as little torture as possible, laying him across the rear seat.
Jonesy passes in and out of consciousness according to the health of the roads and the glare from the streetlights that land directly on his face. After they roll over the tram tracks of Vauxhall Bridge
