The boy only stared at him. Eyes as dark as coals.
Henry forced a chuckle. “Very well, have it your way. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, but you can come in, noneed to hide out there in the hall.”
The boy shook his head determinedly and ran from the doorway. Henry sighed. Sometimes he could not believe he was his son.He spoke only to his mother. Henry doubted he’d ever even heard him laugh; for a while, he’d feared the child was mute. Butit was the way Theo looked at him that was most unnerving. Like he knew everything, like he saw into Henry’s soul. He tippedback the sherry and went to pour another but Laura called that supper was served. Henry set down his glass very carefully.And here we go again.
* * *
She was putting the children to bed when he pulled on his coat and wrapped around his scarf; he’d told her he was going to the club. Without calling goodbye he stepped into the cold gray evening, nearing full darkness now, and hurried through the picket gate and along the street toward the tram. He crossed the road without looking and was nearly hit by a passing carriage. The driver swore at him. Told him to open his bloody eyes. On he strode, almost running now, the excitement too much to contain; an electric tingle fizzed through him, churning his stomach, tingling down his spine. He’d suppressed it all through supper, once the idea had taken hold, now his thoughts spiraled wildly ahead: down into the city, through the streets, the lobby, up the stairs to that faded green door . . . too distracted to notice the stranger following him, the same scruffy man he’d seen earlier, admiring the house from the street.
Jonathan still lived in the boardinghouse, and for Henry coming back here always felt like coming home: now that they wereover he saw those days for what they were, the happiest of his life so far. Giddily he bounded up the stone staircase, thesmoothed-away divots as familiar as palm-lines, and marched along the landing to the door, where he knocked and stood waiting,straightening his tie, smoothing his hair, restlessly tapping his thighs; it had been almost a month. Music was playing inside.Sounded like Mozart: brass gave way to strings. Henry knocked again and heard laughter, footsteps approaching. The door openedand the laughter ceased.
Jonathan wore slacks and a black velvet smoking jacket and cupped a large glass of brandy in his hand. He was smiling backinto the room as he opened the door; the smile faltered when he saw Henry there.
“Oh, Henry, I . . .”
Another man was with him, sitting on the sofa, watching them over the backrest. “You have company,” Henry said, and Jonathanturned as if surprised.
“Yes, this is . . . this is Rupert. Will you join us? Please, come in.”
Rupert saluted with his brandy glass. A ridiculous rat-faced grin.
“No, I’ll leave you to it. Sorry to have disturbed.”
“Henry, please.” Jonathan edged out into the hall, so close they were almost touching, easing the door to. He lowered hisvoice: “You’re being unfair.”
“How?”
“He’s only a friend.”
“I’m sure he is.”
“Well, it’s not like I was expecting you—where have you even been?”
“Busy.”
“And I’m supposed to sit here waiting, am I? On the off chance you grow bored of your perfect family and decide to come round?”
“Now who’s being unfair?”
“You made that decision. Nobody forced you. Certainly not me.”
Henry scoffed. “You really think I had a choice?”
“Yes, you did. As do we all. Your life is your own business, you told me; well, I’m allowed my own life too. You decided yourcareer was more important. I’m not just some rent-boy you can call on when you’re bored of playing house.”
Henry didn’t answer. He trotted down the stairs, the cold whisper of his shoes on the stone, the music carrying faintly fromabove. Jonathan leaned over the railing and called to him but Henry didn’t look up: out onto the front steps, where he stoodsucking in the cold night air. Jonathan’s door slammed, the sound echoing through the empty stairwell behind, and Henry tippedback his head and exhaled. Friends—not likely, it was obvious why that little rat-faced bastard was there. He and Jonathanhad never openly discussed it, the terms of their relationship, what was allowed, but he’d always assumed they were faithful,at least. Surely Jonathan understood that Laura didn’t count.
Henry paused on the street, wavering. Angry, frustrated, humiliated. He could always go to the Hollow, he thought, like inthe old days, but alcohol would only numb him, wouldn’t offer any kind of release. Another possibility occurred to him. Thatword Jonathan had used: rent-boy. He had never actually tried it but knew of a few places men like him went to meet, and therewas something rather thrilling about the idea. An eye for an eye, so to speak. If he was recognized he would plead ignorance,pretend he was meeting a client or simply deny he was Henry Wells at all. He wasn’t that famous anyway. Not yet.
Henry set off walking. A figure ducked out of the alleyway behind him and followed along the street.
The pub stood on the corner of two dimly lit roads and was unremarkable in every way: Henry wondered if he had the right place. From the pavement opposite he watched patrons come and go, all of them men, but there was nothing unusual about that. He crossed the road and walked beneath the awning, peering through the steamed-up windows at men drinking, smoking, playing dominoes and cards. It looked a rough establishment. Not the kind he was used to at all these days. Coarse men in coarse clothing stained and sweaty from their work. But then he wasn’t used to soliciting—nothing about this felt right.
He removed his tie and scarf, rolled his shirtsleeves, roughed up his hair, and hesitated with his hand on the doorplate.Behind him a figure stood watching from the far pavement, the same spot Henry had just been. Henry pushed open the door,
