Lust Or No Harm Done

'Live with me,' asked Michael. 'Stay with me.'

'Oh Jesus.'

The real Phil has his new life, he has Henry, who is rather wonderful. I know you don't love me any more, but just do it out of kindness.'

This Philip was unmoved. 'Wouldn't friends get a bit confused to see me living in two places at once?'

'I could make sure that didn't happen.'

'Hmm. Whisk me out of existence whenever it got inconvenient. Charmed, I'm sure.'

'The real Phil would say do it. He'd probably say humour the poor bastard, it can't do any harm. Phil's still kind. He still doesn't want to hurt me.'

Phil crooked an elbow and lay his head on it. 'You're sure of that, are you?'

'Please,' pleaded Michael. He knew he was in a right old state, hair everywhere, face all red. Helplessness is so attractive.

With his other arm, Phil reluctantly took his shoulder and pulled Michael closer to him.

'Phil still loves you,' the Angel said, but his voice was business-like.

All of Michael's inner scaffolding sagged with the weight. But it didn't give.

Phil spoke in a voice that might as well have come from the grave, consoling, beyond reach. 'I still love you but for the wrong reasons. I moved in with you because I was terrified. I'd just left home, and you were my protector and for a while my provider. And I realized, if I stayed with you, I'd be terrified of life forever. I'd stay shallow and superficial because I would stay a teenager. Thank you for your offer. Thank you for making it an offer, when you could have made it a command. But I'm Phil.' The Angel seemed to stab himself in the heart with his hand. 'And Phil doesn't want to be here. I know what I'll become if I stay here. I'd still be a boy at sixty.'

There was an unspoken question lurking in the sound of the rain.

'And Michael, you would turn into stone.'

'Il faut accepter,' murmured Michael. It was something an elderly French woman once said to him on the Metro. She had caught Michael and Philip subtly mocking her dress and manner: the tartan skirt, the heavy sensible shoes. She told him how she filled her days since her husband's death and the departure of her sons, and how she had overcome her depression.

You have to accept. If you keep saying no, nothing moves on.

The curtains stirred as if the window were open. Philip was gone.

Michael stood up to make himself a cup of tea. He passed the dishes on the dresser and thought: the cups are mine, but most of the crockery is Philip's.

The downstairs buzzer growled. It was Henry.

'Michael? Can I come up?'

Was he supposed to say no? When he opened the door of the flat, Henry stood, dripping wet and looking sad for him. He carried an empty khaki bag. 'Hi. I hope it hasn't been too rough on you.'

Michael didn't answer. After a moment he stood aside to let Henry come in. 'Philip sent me back to get some of his clothes.' Henry shrugged. 'He's a bit of a coward.'

Michael closed up like a sea anemone. 'His things are in the closet there.' Michael walked away, back to his tea. Buggered if he was going to offer Henry anything.

Henry seemed to take forever. Cautious, calm little ruffling sounds came from the bedroom. Oh Jesus Christ, get on with it, can't you? It isn't the Crown Jewels you're packing up. Michael could see Henry, folding up the shirts, the jackets. He would tenderly adjust each sleeve.

That was my job once, except I never folded Philip's things tenderly. I rolled them up in a fury and dumped them in the laundry box and dried them in the dryer so the shirts came out as crisp as fallen leaves.

Michael could imagine Philip deciding which clothes he wanted. He would have kept changing his mind. He would want party gear, and jogging gear and formal wear. There would be a list, full of crossings out.

What on earth was Henry doing? Michael's smaller self began to imagine theft. He walked in on Henry to find jackets and shirts neatly laid out on the bed and on the floor a crossed-out list.

What, do you think you own this place? That's my bed, this is my bedroom. Michael's smaller self wanted to hurl the bag and all the clothes out of the window, or at least into the hallway.

Henry had the good grace to look embarrassed, and motioned towards the list as if to say: Phil, we both know Phil. Michael remembered; this is Henry.

Michael said, 'I'm sorry you were saddled with doing this.'

'It's probably easier on both of you this way. I'll be done in a second.'

'Do you want some tea?'

'I'd love some. But can I finish here first? I'd like to talk.'

Cornered.

Michael sat waiting in the dining room like a schoolboy, ripping off the tip of his thumbnail. Finally, after five minutes, Henry came in and he poured the tea.

Michael couldn't think of any neutral way to start the conversation, so he asked, 'Where are you staying?'

'The Arts Club. There's a spare room.'

'Ah. That's why he wants all his trendy gear.'

'He's very upset.'

Michael sniffed. 'He can come back, if he's so upset.'

Henry said, with a trace of a smile, 'He may be coming back sooner than you think.' He reached into his woollen ethnic shoulder bag and pulled out a copy of a newspaper. Henry passed it to Michael and kept his eyes fixed on Michael's face.

At first Michael thought it was the Financial Times. The paper had yellowed. He was wondering why Henry had given him a newspaper and why he should be interested, when he saw a photograph of Henry. The light from the camera had penetrated his brown eyes so that they looked translucent and deep, like water through clear ice. His smile looked delighted, with good reason.

The headline read stumpy unlikely sex symbol.

Michael felt his eyes bug out. 'You're Stumpy!' exclaimed Michael. Stumpy was an anti-motorway protester who had caught the attention of the press about two years before and had become something of a celebrity.

Of course that's why he looked familiar. Though Henry did look a little different. Maybe he was just two years older.

Henry coughed, uncomfortably. 'Not exactly,' he said, looking at Michael with a sad wariness. 'I'm a copy.' He waited, and Michael began to understand. 'I was wondering if you could tell me anything about that.'

Michael processed, and Harry gave him time. Neither of them said anything, and then after a silence too long for comfort both of them began to talk at once.

Michael said, 'What do you mean, a copy?' and Henry said, with a relenting smile, 'Obviously you don't know anything about it.'

Then they had to pick up the pieces of the conversation. Michael said, 'Copy? Copy? You mean like an Angel?'

Henry had never heard the term Angel. He turned his head as if trying to hear better. 'No, no, I mean like the Castro brothers this morning.'

'Yeah, yeah, an Angel.'

Henry paused, pressing his two hands together gently. 'Yes, that's what I mean.'

Michael felt his heart thump. The next thought came to him sharp as a knife. Was there someone else who could do this? Michael did not want to be the only one who did this. He wanted someone else to talk to about it. 'Did someone else make you? Do you know who?'

This managed to throw Henry. 'Someone else?' He scratched his head and began to smile. 'I was assuming that it had to be you. In fact, Michael, I still am pretty certain it is you.'

'Why do you say that? I've hardly even heard of you.'

Henry's gaze at Michael was wistful, determined and sympathetic. 'Philip and I met at First Out. Suddenly I was just standing there next to him and asked if I could see his copies of the free papers.'

Henry's eyebrows raised as if offering up the story in evidence on a tray.

'That's how Phil and I met,' said Michael.