Brothers in Blood by David Stuart Davies

but he gritted his teeth and his grim determination mixed with that strange strand of guilt that had started to develop with in him, helped to keep him moving.
    The sun had appeared now and the early morning chill had begun to dissipate, but this did nothing to cheer his spirits. He felt wretched and, worse than that, he hated himself. He tried hard to switch his brain off, to stop thinking altogether and to prevent the bright searing images from his ordeal returning to haunt him. But he failed. If anything they came back with greater clarity. The three sweaty bodies; their tight grip on him as two of them held him forward while the third forced an entry. Again and again. The excruciating pain mixed with a wild fear and disgust. He felt his stomach retch once more, but this time it was in vain. There was nothing left for him to spew forth.
    On reaching the centre of town he headed for the railway station and got a taxi to take him home.
    ‘Where the hell have you been?’ John, still in his dressing gown clasping a mug of tea, rose from his armchair as Alex entered. John was angry and had barely looked at Alex as he walked thorough the door, but when he did so, he recoiled in shock at his friend’s appearance. ‘Bloody hell, what happened to you?’
    Alex staggered forward and slumped down on the sofa, his eyes filled with tears. ‘I don’t want to talk about it. I won’t talk about it. Ever!’
    John sat down by him. ‘Come on, man. Something terrible’s happened. What is it? For Christ’s sake you can tell me.’
    John moved forward to put a comforting arm around Alex but he flinched and pulled back.
    ‘No, don’t… don’t touch me. Don’t… touch me.’
    John backed off. ‘OK. OK. I won’t. But surely you can tell me where you’ve been. I mean… what’s made you like this?’
    Words wouldn’t come and so Alex just shook his head.
    ‘Maybe later, eh? Man, you look rough. Have you been attacked or something? Should I ring the police?’
    ‘No! No police. Nothing… just… nothing. Just leave it will you!’ Alex’s voice was hoarse but filled with anger.
    John shook his head confused and concerned.
    ‘Well, I can get you a cup of tea, can’t I? Surely you’ll let me do that.’
    ‘Yeah. A cup of tea… that would be… yeah a cup of tea.’ He nodded without looking at his friend. The universal panacea. That will cure all ills – won’t it?
    Twenty minutes later Alex was submersed in a bathful of soapy water scrubbing himself red raw. Attempting to scrub the pain, the shame and the humiliation away. The harder he rubbed, the more he realised the mark on his soul was indelible.

FOURTEEN
    Laurence was on his way to getting drunk. Again. Well, it was Friday night. That was his excuse. There was always an excuse: he was feeling rather low; he was in a good mood; the play had gone badly; the play had gone well; he was bored; he was elated; he was out of work; he was in work; he was thirsty. In truth, it was always for the same reason: he wanted to place the real world at a distance, to soften its edges, to escape dull reality.
    Indeed it was Friday night, and the play had gone reasonably well and the reviews earlier in the week from the Salisbury Bugle or whatever the local rag was called had made some fleetingly complimentary remarks about his performance but despite this he was feeling down in the mouth. He was sitting in the theatre bar with some members of the cast and stage crew having a boozy wind down after the performance. Sue Ling, the little prop girl, had squeezed herself in beside him and was paying him a great deal of attention. While he was enjoying this, his mind was not fully concentrating on her animated conversation. He was thinking about the letter he’d received that morning from Alex. It had been most unpleasant, shocking even, full of painful revelations and unsettling images. He thought he had been made of sterner stuff to react as he had done. And the letter presented